
iirlyS 




Sottprntr 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



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Shelf-itLSL 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THOUGHT BLOSSOMS 



rRo/n the 



. . SOUTH . . 



A COLLECTION OE POEA\S, ESSAYS, STORIES, ETC. 

. . BY . . 

SOUTHERN WRITERS, 

. . WITH AN . . 

INTRODUCTION BY HON. cJOHN TEA\PLE GRAVES. 



. . CO/SPILED BY . . 

LOUISE ThREETE HODGES, 

ASSISTED BY 

GERTRUDE ELOISE BEALER. 




A SOUVENIR 

. . OP THE . . h & 

COTTON STATES AND INTERNATIONAL 
EXPOSITION. 

/m$3 






.vi 



COPYRIGHTED, 1895, 

BY 

LOUISE THREETE HODGES. 



Press of 

The Foote & Davies Company, 

Atlanta, Ga. 



INDEX. 



Introductory, -__.-_.___-_ 7 

John Temple Graves. 

Goingto the Fair, -____-_---- 10 

Frank L. Stanton . 

Atlanta's Baptism of Fire, --------- 13 

Wallace Putnam Reed. 

Madcap and Demon, ----------- 16 

William Hamilton Hayne. 

Women in the Professions, --------- 17 

Helen H. Gardener. 

Friendships Between Men and Women, ------- 23 

Mary E. Bryan. 

When Josiah Plays the Fiddle, -------- 24 

Julia T. Riordan. 

A Melodious Mimic, -----------28 

Joel Chandler Harris. 

"The Pathos of Our Destiny/' - - 36 

Mel R. Colquitt. 

My Josephine, ------------ 37 

Robert Loveman. 

Genius, - ---------- 39 

Charles W. Hubner. 

In Southern Homes, ----------- 40 

Emma Moft'ett Tyng. 



My Mother's Old Steel Thimble, -------- 47 

Lucius Perry Hills. 

The Practical and the Poetic, - 48 

Logan E. Bleckley. 

Christmas Day in Southern Georgia, -------50 

Gertrude Eloise Bealer. 

Durante Vita, -------- r 53 

Lollie Belle Wylie. 

Jacob Ladd's Change of Heart, -------- 54 

WillN. Harben. 

Fruition, -___-_.__-___ 65 

Ethel Hillyer Harris. 

Madonna, - 68 

Myrta Lockett Avary. 

Life's Comrades, ----------- 70 

Leonora Beck. 

Have You Been True Americans ?-------- 78 

Henry Clay Fairman. 

Voices of the Shoals, ---------- 77 

Minnie Quinn. 

The Dawning Century, ---------- 79 

Henry Jerome Stockard. 

.Shadows, - - 80 

Louise Threete Hodges. 

To Lillie of Atlanta, ----------- 84 

Will S. Hays. 

The Belle of the Season, ---------- 85 

Ella May Powell. 

Dolorosa, ------- 91 

Beatrice Stur«vs. 



A Little Boy, ------------ 104 

Orelia Key Bell. 

Aunt Angeline's Triumph, --------- 107 

Will Allen Dromgoole. 

Haunted, ------------- lit) 

E. F. Andrews. 

Under the Rose, ------- 122 

Harry Still well Edwards. 

Sleep, ... - - - - 132 

Thomas Nelson Page. 

Practical Words to Southern Writers, 133 

T. C. DeLeon. 

Boyhood's Dream Island, ---------- 137 

Lucien L. Knight. 

The Child of Tallulah, - - - 139 

Annie II. Smith. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

In this Exposition year, when the South makes glorious mani- 
fest of its material greatness and development, it seems proper to 
present, in acceptable form, the evidences of that gentler growth 
in scholarship and literature, which has been so happily coincident 
with the industrial advance. 

There was no distinctive Southern literature before the civil 
strife. The diffusion of population hindered the public school. 
The fertility of soil and climate lessened the necessity for labor; 
while the paradox of slavery enthralled the intellectual life of the 
people, prevented centralization in community life, destroyed 
the inspiration to literary labor, and in the apprehension of im- 
pending danger to the cherished institution, swept every vital 
brain as an eager volunteer into the open and tempting arena of 
politics. 

But there was no lack of brains behind the splendid feudal 
system of our earlier economic life. The period so unproductive 
in literature enriched the world with political wisdom, and was 
prolific of statesmen and patriots. A Southerner first declared 
forconstitutional liberty; a Southerner sounded the first ringing 
note for independence, and another Southerner baptized the free- 
men of the world in the glory of its declaration; a Southerner 
carried to a victorious issue the revolution which followed, and 
Southern brains and patriotism made deep impress upon the noble 
structure of the federal constitution. But the environment was 

7 



THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

political and aristocratic, and letters were subordinate to the 
forum and the sword. 

Scholarship and literature have blossomed for us easily and 
naturally out of the changed conditions of our sectional life. The 
revolution threw us together. Its necessities disciplined us; the 
suffering chastened, the tragedy inspired sentiment to expression, 
and the final catastrophe opened new fields of observation and 
expression. 

Southern scholarship has enriched Johns Hopkins University 
with the famous Gildersleeve ; it has contributed to the faculty 
of Columbia College, Thos. R. Price and John W. Burgess. Har- 
vard has levied upon us for Crawford Toy and David Lynn. The 
great University of Wisconsin has called Charles Forster Smith 
from Vanderbilt ; Wm. Rogers, a Southern student, founded in 
Massachusetts the greatest technological institute in America, 
and Souza, of Virginia, is now a teacher there. Deering, of Van- 
derbilt, has gone to the West; Stuart, of Texas, is at Amherst; 
the brilliant and distinguished LeContes are in California, while 
Maury's text-books enrich the schools of the republic. 

The pulpits of the great city churches, North and West, ring 
every Sabbath with the eloquence of Deems and Dixon and Tal- 
mage and Lee and Stakely and Hoyt, and a host of consecrated 
Southern men, called from the storm-swept section of '65. 

From the echoes of slavery, Harris and Page have caught up 
and immortalized the folklore of the plantation, and the dialect 
humor of the race whose history is the pathos of our civilization. 
Over the wreck of the feudal system, DeLeon has painted the van- 
ishing gallantries and graces of the Cavalier against the sterner 
qualities of the triumphant Puritan. Will Allen Dromgoole has 
gladdened the world with stories fresh as the breezes that blow 



INTRODUCTORY. 9 

us balm in summer from the pleasant hills of Tennessee; Harben 
and Edwards and Rives and Crim have colored literature with 
the richness of Southern life and scenery; Hayne and Lanier 
have charmed the world with melodious thought, while Stanton 
sings with clear and tender note the songs of nature and cheer- 
fulness and love. 

Some of the names that fill this little book are known wher- 
ever the language is spoken. To the waiting public we present 
these old friends throned in our family group, and against the 
brightening skies of our literary future, we hopefully frame these 
young and vigorous personalities that are moving so earnestly 
and wakefully to usefulness and fame. 

John Temple Graves. 



10 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



GOING TO THE FAIR. 

Hitch up the ox-team, Johnny — the brindle an' the white, 
An' throw some fodder in the cart, an' pile the melons right ; 
An' pull the biggest peaches, and then — go bresh yer hair, 
An' hurry up yer mother, for we're goin' to the fair! 

We've got a lot to show 'em — no matter what they say ! 

The finest watermelon — the biggest bale o' hay ; 

The sweetest country roses the south wind ever swayed — 

The socks yer grandma knitted, an' the quilt yer mother made. 

Tell Sue to wear her caliker — the one I bought in town; 
Fetch out my linen duster, and bresh my collar down ; 
Make Jimmy jump into his jeans — the finest he kin wear, 
An' hurry up yer mother, for we're goin' to the fair! 

I wisht they had a fam'ly show, an' give a fam'ly prize; 
For then I know we'd win it with the blue o' Sally's eyes; 
An' Jimmy — ain't a finer boy from summer time to fall; 
An' if they'd put the women up, yer mother'd beat 'em all! 

So hitch the ox-team, Johnny — the brindle an' the white, 
An' throw some fodder in the cart, an' pile the melons right ; 
An' hurry up the children, an' git yer mother's chair — 
An' hurrah for a holiday ! — we're goin' to the fair! 

Frank L. Stanton. 




GOING TO THE FAIR. 



ATLANTA'S BAPTISM OF FIRE. 13 



ATLANTA'S BAPTISM OF FIRE. 

The thousands of visitors from every quarter of the republic 
who are thronging our streets during our great Exposition, see 
on every side the progress, prosperity and splendor of the new 
Atlanta, and they look in vain for even a vestige of the historic 
city, whose famous siege of forty days makes one of the most 
thrilling chapters in the story of the war between the States. 

Only a generation ago, in the summer of 'sixty-four, this 
stronghold of the Confederacy was a fortified camp. Every red 
hill was a fortress, and the circle of red ramparts around the 
town bristled with bayonets. A mile from this circle, surround- 
ing the city, stood the frowning bastions and breastworks of 
Sherman's army, sheltering the ninety thousand men in blue, who 
confronted less than forty thousand Confederates. 

In the besieged city, the citizens and soldiers were almost en- 
tirely cut off from the outside world, and they were fortunate 
when they could obtain half rations. Every day and every night, 
for six weeks, the rattle of musketry and the hideous noise of 
exploding shells made sleep impossible, while the thunderous roar 
of hundreds of big guns made the ground shake with all the indi- 
cations of a mighty earthquake. 

Within the city's walls, thirty thousand citizens pursued their 
various occupations. Scores of factories continued to furnish 
such products and supplies as were needed by the armies of the 
Confederacy; hundreds of stores were crowded with shoppers, 



14 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

and six daily newspapers were engaged in a sharp rivalry. At- 
lanta then occupied a circle three miles in diameter, and as the 
houses off the business streets were widely scattered, the shells 
did less damage than might have been expected. In the course of 
forty days, about one hundred citizens — men, women and chil- 
dren — were killed, while the soldiers were slaughtered by thou- 
sands. The big shells frequently destroyed large houses, and 
occasionally caused disastrous fires. 

Familiarity with danger makes people reckless, and in the 
davs of the siege, women visited their neighbors as usual, and 
the children enjoyed their sports and games, dodging the shells, 
and diving down into a convenient bombproof when the fire 
grew too hot for them. Night after night dragged along in 
July and August, with the atmosphere flaming with the glare of 
bursting bombs. A heavy canopy of smoke hung like a pall over 
the town, and the movements of army wagons and troops filled 
the air with a thick, red dust. 

Great battles were fought in every direction, and the men in 
the rifle pits, on the present site of the Exposition, turned 
Piedmont Park into a slaughter pen. 

For forty days, the baptism of fire continued, and our red 
hills grew still redder as the conflict progressed. Then came a 
lull. The battle of Jonesboro was fought, and Hood's army, on 
the night of the 1st of September, quietly abandoned the city, 
blowing up all the munitions of war which they were unable to 
carry with them. 

The next day, a blue tidal wave surged through our streets, 
and the victorious invaders held the town. For ten weeks, the 
conquerors ruled the captured city. Sherman showed the helpless 
people little mercy. He sent them south and north, and seized 



ATLANTA'S BAPTISM OF FIRE. 



ir, 



their homes for liis officers and men. Finally, in November, he 
started on his wonderful mareh'to the sea. His soldiers applied 
the torch to every building that could be of use to the Confed- 
erates. The center of the town was turned into a wilderness of 
ruins, an impassable desert of ashes. Nothing was left but a 
circle of some four hundred dwellings outside of the burned 
district. 

This was all that was left of the old Atlanta, and it was all 
that the returning exiles found when they came back to their 
homes, thirty years ago. This picture, broadly outlined, will 
give our visitors who glance over these pages some idea of the 
material progress of the Gate City since the dark days of the war 
period. Time's gentle hand has effaced the sears of the great 
conflict. The forts and breastworks have been leveled ; fields of 
corn stand where the armies once confronted each other, and the 
roses are blooming on the old battlefields. The ruins and ashes 
have disappeared, and in their place the tourist sees a stately 
metropolis, whose domes and spires and structures of brick and 
marble and iron bear eloquent testimony to the pluck and en- 
ergy of the people who have rebuilt Georgia's capital. 

The city of the siege is a thing of the past, but its heroic 
memories will endure forever. In its place stands the metropolis 
of the New South, and side by side the blue and the gray are 
working out their destiny, with simple faith and loyal hearts. 

Hand in hand they are solving their new problems and mas- 
tering their new conditions, and one spirit animates all classes— 
the spirit of the immortal Grady, who lived and died, literally 
"loving a nation into peace!" 

Wallace Putnam Reed. 



1(5 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FBOM THE SOUTH. 



-$h 



MADCAP AND DEMON. 

Autumn the staid has a comrade wild, — 
The Wind, with the pranks of a playful child, — 
Who whistles a tune to the harvest sheaves, 
And romps with the scarlet and golden leaves. 

But, alas! for him. In the march of time 
He leagues his innocent mirth with crime, — 
And barters the birthright of boyish glee 
For a Dance of Death o'er the winter sea. 

William Hamilton Hayne. 



~$h 



WOMEN IN THE PROFESSIONS. 17 



WOMEN IN THE PROFESSIONS. 

We have all been "born again," we women of to-day, and we 
have been born into a time and a condition and a country where 
for the first time in the history of the human race, "men our 
brothers, men the workers," are ready and willing and able to 
stand beside us and say to us: "Push at the door of oppor- 
tunity ! Push hard and well and then if it does not yield to your 
strength, tell us and we will help you. But push first, and appeal 
to us afterward. If your own new-found powers are not equal 
to the task, we are mistaken. We will stand beside you, but 
you must make your own path." 

And we are making it. 

In the business world, in the professions, in literature, in art, 
in science we are coming in a steady army and the door is swing- 
ing wider and wider on its hinges. It will never be closed again. 
What we have now to do is to be well prepared to take a digni- 
fied and useful place in the great and splendid Hall of Oppor- 
tunity. 

Whatever woman's work is she must be thorough in her prepa- 
ration for it and know absolutely where each line she draws is to 
lead to and where it started from. Patchwork in life, like patch- 
work with the needle, has been superseded. 

A woman cannot make a good doctor, a good lawyer, a good 
journalist, a good preacher, a good novelist, a good artist, or a 
great musician unless she knows and can weigh in a rational 
manner the meanings of life— unless behind her science, her art, 



18 THOUGHT BL0880MS FROM THE SOUTH. 

her labor or her philosophy there is a comprehension born of a 
solid grasp upon the real meanings of life — its relations, its pro- 
portions. 

Knowledge is, indeed, power ; and ignorance is ever and always 
the twin brother of vice. Therefore, no matter what profession 
falls to the lot of or is chosen by a woman, the first, the most im- 
portant, the absolutely vital need for her is a broad, solid, tine 
and comprehensive grasp upon the facts of life as life is to-day 
and as it has been in the past. This alone will enable her to 
Lay a firm foundation for the future. 

I think this statement will be accepted as almost a truism when 
it is applied to what is generally called the professions. Hut, 
strange to say, there is one profession for which it is always 
claimed that a true and firm and comprehensive sense of the pro- 
portions in life is not at all necessary to fit the applicant for a 
diploma — the profession of motherhood. 

And yet it is true— and it is easy of proof, if one has the least 
knowledge of biology or heredity — that there is no occupation, 
no art, no profession on the earth in which ignorance of the true 
relations of things can and does work such lasting and such ter- 
rible disaster to the race as has been done and is constantly being 
done right there. 

Ignorant and undeveloped motherhood has been and is a terri- 
ble curse to the race. 

An incompetent woman artist is merely a pathetic failure; 

A superficial woman lawyer simply goes clientless; 

A trivial woman doctor may get a chance to kill one or two 
patients, but her career of harm will be brief; 

A shallow or lazy woman journalist will becrowded out and 
back by the bright and industrious fellows who are her competi- 
tors ; 



WOMEN IN TUK PROFESSIONS. 10 

But, a superficial, shallow, incompetent, trivial mother has 
left a heritage to the world which can and does poison the stream 
of life as it flows on rind on in an eternally widening circle of 
pain or disease or insanity or crime. 

In every other profession which woman has entered, she has 
been better fitted for her work before she took her degree, than 
for the one which is held to be her especial province. Why? Sim- 
ply because up to the present time it has been maintained that a 
pretty and childish ignorance of the real and true values and rela- 
tions of life, combined with a fine pair of eyes and a compliant 
manner, entitled any woman to a diploma in her "sphere'' of ma- 
ternity, while if she undertook to fit herself for any other career 
she has had to measure life, not with a painted toy mentality, 
but with the logically trained intellect which must compete with 
her brothers, the established workers of the world, or else she 
must go to the wall where her incompetence thrusts her. 

It would be well, for the sake of the race, if she could be sub- 
ject to such competition in maternity. And did it ever occur to 
you that her children are subject to it, and that the vast spread 
of incompetence in the world— the universality of incompetence 
to cope with conditions— has a legitimate basis? 

No woman is fit to bring up the administrators of a republic, 
who is not herself familiar with the fundamental principles upon 
which that republic is based ; for it is a well-known fact, excep- 
tions and geniuses being allowed for, that the trend, the bias, the 
color of the mentality of a man, is fixed upon him in his earliest 
years— in the years when his mother is his nearest and most in- 
fluential teacher. His sense of justice and of fairness is warped 
or developed then. His possibilities are born of her capacity, 
and his development depends largely upon her training. 



20 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM T1IK SO (J Til. 

What profession in the world, then, needs so wide an outlook, 
so perfect a poise, so fine an individual development, such breadth 
and BCOpe, such depth of comprehension, such fullness of philoso- 
phy as docs the lightly considered profession of motherhood? 

Lightly considered, I mean, in the sense that it has been and 
is held by so many that it does no especial harm to have the 
mothers of the race distinctly lower in development, in mentality 
in individuality, in poise, in grasp, in education, than any other 
class of men or women. 

It is getting to be pretty generally looked upon as the special 
province of the less highly endowed or the less thoroughly trained 
residuum to become the progenitors of the coming generation. 
The theory seems to be about this: If you have a daughter 
who is too silly or weak-minded or unambitious to become a unit 
in the march of progress and civilization; if she is incompetent 
to be sent through a solid training of school or college and (it 
herself for some possible or probable career as minister, doctor, 
designer, lawyer, journalist or what not, marry her to somebody 
and let him carry the load of her uninspiring presence while he 
lives and let the race bear the burden of her infirmities and igno- 
rance unto the third and fourth generation of them that loved her. 

The fact is, as over against that theory, that if you have a 
daughter who is finer and truer, more capable and noble, more 
intellectual and able than the rest, she is the one whose education 
and development as an individual should be carried to its highest 
reach, not simply because she is to be a writer or speaker or 
teacher,for which she may be primarily fitting herself as her trend 
may be, but because in the ultimate analysis it may also be her 
pleasure and province to be the wife .and mother in a real and true 
and inspiring home life where her evernew and stimulating com- 



WOMEN IN THE PROFESSIONS. 21 

radeship for husband and children makes of her mind, a beacon 

light, and of her poised and self-disciplined disposition, a guide 
and an inspiration; where she will he loved rind revered, not only 
because she is loving and good, hut because she is also wise and 
able and broad enough to lead, instead of being blind to the very 
pitfalls in the pathway of her sons and daughters. 

When our republic has such mothers as thnt, the question of 
women in the other professions will have adjusted itself. When 
woman is developed and free to choose, capacity will find its 
level and its outlet, [gnorance will cease to be looked upon as 
beautiful in either sex, and men rind women will, for the first 
time, clasp hands and try conclusions with a frankness and a 
generosity and a comradeship which will be a real inspiration 
and joy to both. 

There is a Japanese legend which says that when Japan was 
first created, a man and a woman were placed upon the island 
and told that they must travel in silence and in Opposite direc- 
tions around the entire country, thinking what was best and 
wisest and truest in life, until they should meet again at the same 
place. They did so, and when they met, the man looked up and 
in great joy spoke first; but, as the quaint Legend puts it, "there 
was an impediment, and they could not marry," but were told to 
make the same journey again, and think more deeply. They did 
so, and this time the woman saw him first and cried out with 
pleasure after the long silence. "Hut there was still an impedi- 
ment," and a third time they made the long journey, and when 
they met, each looked up with solemn and radiant joy, and spoke 
together, and from that time there was "nothing between their 
lives, but they were truly mated forever." 



22 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

That exquisite little legend from the far east holds within it 

a quaint and a true bit of philosophy— a bit of philosophy to 

which our western world is but just now awakening — a bit of 

philosophy which is back of all questions of "Woman (orof Man) 

in the Professions." 

Helkn H. Gardener. 



^&®/©0®v 



FRIENDSHIPS BETWEEN MEN AND WOMEN. 23 



FRIENDSHIPS BETWEEN MEN AND WOMEN. 

French novelists declare there can be no such thing as a pure 
friendship between a young man and a married woman. Cer- 
tainly, their risque novels have helped to increase the number of 
flirting matrons and men of frivolous gallantry, who sneer at 
marriage and rate women cheaply. They have lessened the pos- 
sibility of what has been a pure and helpful feature in many 
good and some eminent lives in the past,— friendship between 
men and women. 

The lives of many distinguished and beautiful women offer 
instances of matrons who have made themselves centers of an 
homage at once ardent and respectful. A married woman's po- 
sition allows her a freedom of speech and manner, which, when 
tempered with modesty, is eminently winning. She can enter 
with sympathy into the feelings and aspirations of a youngman, 
win his confidence and shape his moral ideas. 

She destroys this prospect of ennobling influence the moment 
she stoops to flirtation. She steps down from the goddess ped- 
estal. She turns the loyal adherence of her girl friends into 
rivalry and suspicion. She barters the frank homage of hermale 
admirers for the flippant, feverish adulation of the flirtee— a bar- 
ren waste of passion that can have no honest end and produce 
no honest happiness. 

Mary E. Bryan. 



24 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



WHEN JOSIAH PLAYvS THE FIDDLE. 

Y' may talk about y' orchestras, y' operas, 'n' sich, 

Where th' aint no tune ter nothin' 'n' the folks jist howl 'n' 

screech ; 
Where th' make sich fuss 'n' racket y' caint hear y' own self 

sneeze, 
With the tootin' o' the instruments 'n' bangin' o' the keys; 
But with all ther fancy music, we kin beat 'em any day, 
When Josiah plays the fiddle V I sing "Nelly Gray." 

Why y' ought ter see Josiah when he takes his fiddle down ! 
Y'd fergit his face is wrinkled 'n' his fingei's stiff V brown ; 
Y'd fergit he's nigh ter eighty 'n' his hair 's white 's snow, 
Fer he plays jist lak he used ter, more 'n fifty years ago. 
Es fer me— well — I don't sing much, but I sorter hums away, 
When Josiah plays the fiddle 'n' I sing "Nelly Gray." 

It aint none o' these here new songs, but its one that kinder 

clings, 
With its simple words 'n' music, round y' very heart, 'n' brings 
Back the mem'ry o' the old times 'n' the old plantation life, 
When the darkies used ter sing it, 'fore they knew of hate 'n' 

strife ; 
'N' it makes y' feel so restful, though them times are far away, 
When Josiah plays the fiddle 'n' I sing "Nelly Gray." 




WHEN JOSIAH PLAYED THE FIDDLE. 



WHEN JO SI AH PLAYS THE FIDDLE. 27 

Sometimes when we're both a-sittin' by the kitchen fire at night, 
'N' we gits ter seem' pictures where the coals are glowin' bright; 
When I see the wrinkles deepen 'round Josiah's mouth 'n' eye, 
'N'l knowwhat he's a-thinkin' 'n'he knows what makes me sigh, 
Then I says "Let's have some music : it'll help us ter feel gay ;" 
So Josiah plays the fiddle 'n' I sing "Nelly Gray." 

I remember when our Mary, with the curlin' golden hair, 
Was laid beneath the flowers in the churchyard over there; 
When our hearts was almost breakin' — though we knew it was a 

sin, 
Grievin' fer the sound o' footsteps 'at we'd never hear agin ; 
When our tears was fastest fallin'.yet we'd wipe 'em quick away, 
'N'— Josiah 'd play the fiddle— V I'd sing "Nelly Gray." 

'N' when Robert — he's our eldest— when he ran away ter sea, 
'N' left not a single word o' love ter father er ter me ; 
When the years passed on unheeded 'n' we got no news of him ; 
When we was so tired o' watchin' 'n' our eyes was gettin' dim ; 
When our hearts was overburdened 'til we felt wecouldn't pray — 
Then— Josiah 'd play the fiddle 'n' I'd sing "Nelly Gray." 

'N' its alius helped us so much, though you might not think it 

would ; 
Fer it teaches us a patience 'at no lesson ever could. 
'N' es one by one friends leave us, yet we know thet it is best, 
'N' the time aint long a-comin' when we, too, shall go ter rest. 
'N' es death's dark shadows gather, closin' 'round our life's 

pathway, 
Then— Josiah '11 play the fiddle 'n' I'll sing "Nelly Gray." 

Julia T. Riordan. 



28 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



A MELODIOUS MIMIC. 

THE FEATHERED SHAKESPEARE OF THE SOUTHERN WOODS. 

I am not disposed to confess that the mocking bird, whose 
curiously delightful performances have suggested these random 
notes, is in any respect an exceptional representative of his species, 
lam writing about him in self-defense and by way of retaliation. 
I have a distinct impression that he made me the subject of seri- 
ous contemplation and ultimate criticism long before my interest 
in his performances was specially aroused. We are the joint occu- 
pants of a suburban garden, and, thus far, no trouble has arisen 
between us; but I am convinced that the bird's title is better than 
mine. I make the admission the more freely since I have reason 
to believe he has a fine scorn for such procedures as result in writs 
of ejectment. He has a habit of steadying himself, using his long 
tail as a balancing pole, upon the swaying top of a young cedar, 
near the veranda, and from that point of view examining me 
with critical eyes. Occasionally, at the remembrance of some 
grievance, doubtless, his headfeathers will become ruffled, and, at 
such times, his attitude is strikingly belligerent ; but it is only for 
a moment. He recovers his serenity immediately, and continues 
his investigations with the generous impartiality so becoming to 
an earnest seeker after knowledge. I would like to know what 
his conclusions are — principally because they are unbiased. I am 
not prepared to say that his opinions are of no importance. His 
examination, which has been carried on at intervals the whole 
season through, has been marked by too many symptoms of 



A MELODIOUS MIMIC. 29 

acute intelligence not to be worthy of consideration. I would 
rather, for instance, merit the approbation of this impartially 
critical bird, than earn the effusive praise of my neighbor, who 
sends over to borrow a basket of grapes, in order to have the 
pleasure of inquiring after my health . Am I unjust to my neigh- 
bor in this? I think not. In the first place, my neighbor lacks 
the gift of song. I have heard him try to exercise this lack, and 
I speak from the fulness of dearly-bought knowledge. In the 
second place if the bird has formed an unfavorable opinion, as 
he probably has (his judgment not beingconfused by the various 
interpretations of the moral code that are made to fit individual, 
and even national notions and characteristics), he judiciously 
keeps it to himself. Under similar circumstances, I am not by 
any means sure, my neighbor would be as generously reserved. 

It is not improbable that the mocking bird, upon whose pre- 
serves I have been trespassing for a year or more, may carry his 
critical investigation far beyond the limits of true politeness. I 
should certainly resent-mentally, at least-such persistent and 
studied observation on the part of the neighbor who borrows 
grapes. But, somehow, there seems to be a certain subtle flat- 
tery in the attitude of the bird, which is ample compensation for 
whatever blushes he may put me to. Moreover, there is that 
larger compensation which he gives in song, for, almost invaria- 
bly, when he has seemed to satisfy himself that I have made no 
perceptible advance in the direction of that high civilization of 
which he is the type, he assumes an attitude of rapturous repose, 
and, forthwith, improvises a most entrancing concert, providing, 
with indescribable art, numberless arias and choruses, to say 
nothing of the refrains, trills, and exquisite little passages that 
flutter and fall from the body of the song in most surprising pro- 



80 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM nib: south. 

fusion. This, 1 beg the reader to believe, is not thelanguage of 
eulogy, but of observation— albeit, no language is capable of 

giving more than a faint idea of the infinite variety and sweet- 
ness of the mocking bird's song. 

Not infrequently he will go galloping through the mazes of 
liis mimicry, as if to show that his memory is as nimble and as 
perfect as his technical skill, At other times, he will pursuehis 
song through a variety of pauses, more or less tantalizing, with 
the lazy indifference of a master who is seemingly careless because 
he knows his art so thoroughly. Occasionally, in the midst of a 
brilliant overture, he will suddenly mount straight into the air, 
turn a complete somersault, and drop back upon his perch, with- 
out pausing in his soul;. When this oeenrs, the practical observer 

knows that some golden- winded bug has been swept into this 
small whirlpool of mnsie. At other times, he will shift his posi- 
tion from the cedar to the poplar, then to the china tree, and 
thence to the chimney-top. If the season be spring, nothing seems 
to delight him more than to fly lazily over the pink-and-white 

expanse ol orchard blooms, singing as he goes, If the season be 
early summer, the observer will be astonished to see the bird diop 
from his mnsieal heights to the warm grass beneath, and inn 
daintily along, pausing occasionally to Spread his win<;s and fold 

them again. H von ace unable to aeeonnt for this singular per- 
formance, some convenient Uncle Remus will tell von that the 

bird is engaged in "skeerin' Upgrass'oppers," a statement that is 
at least plausible. I am disposed to believe, however, that this 

manoeuvre is one of the various symptoms of the bird's honey- 
moon, ami that, as sneh.it ought to commend him to the respect- 
ful consideration, if not the sympathies. <)i' thegeneral public. 



A MELODIOUS MIMIC. 81 

There are occasions when the genuine humor of the mocking 
bird is a souree of wonder as well as delight. To-day, he will go 
through his performances with great sobriety and discretion; to- 
morrow, he will retain to his orchestra chair, apparently in a 
state of great excitement, which finds expression in sudden quirks 
of the body, and unexpected movements of the tail. Every mo- 
tion seems to say: "Yesterday was a comparatively dull day 
with me. I feel better now, and I think we ought to have some 
fun." With that, he will fall to, and, with surprising rapidity 
and effectiveness, reproduce the characteristic notes of the hun- 
dred and one little warblers and whistlers that Hit .and hide in 
the thickets and swamps— some of them no bigger than your 
thumb. 

There is practically no limit to the variety of the mocking 
bird's song. Its range seems to be boundless. He is the Shakes- 
peare of birds; he not only sounds every note that is heard in 
the woods, but what he appropriates he improves upon. He 
gives new meaning to the stutter of the summer redbird, and 
adds new melody to the plaintive note of the wood robin. His 
wonderful faculty of interpretation invests the whistle of the 
blackbird with a certain indescribable pathos thai cannot, by 
any effort of the imagination, be traced to the blackbird itself. 
How infectious the incongruity which accompanies his reproduc- 
tion of the spring note of the blue jay! This note is not the 
coarse call commonly associated with the jay, and from which 
the bird derives its name. It is a comical, but not unmusical 
sound, suggestive of an attempt to swallow or smother a shrill 
whistle, and is accompanied by a series of unexpectedly emphatic 
bows. These bows the mocking bird makes 110 attempt to imi- 
tate, for he is not the foolish jester the thoughtless poets would 



82 Tlioi <;IIT liLONSOMS FliOM Till-: SOUTH. 

make lii in out to be. He reproduces the note with surprising vi- 
vacity and distinctness, and I am perfectly willing to admit that 
the contrast between his polished style and the enrions evolutions 
of the blue jay is not altogether free from a suggestion of rather 
broad humor. At the same time, I contend that it is real humor, 
and not buffoonery. Running through and through his song, 
and blending curiously with whatever antics he may choose to 
perform — and some of them are surprising enough — such con- 
trasts and incongruities as this become identified with the bird 
itself, investing him with a flavor of real humor that never 
ceases to be delightful. 

It is a mistake to suppose that the mocking bird has no notes 
of his own, albeit he is somewhat capricious in using them. At 
night, and on rare occasions in the daytime, they serve as little 
interludes to the wonderful mimicry with which he fills the air. 
They come in the pauses and transitions of this woodland 
Shakespeare's vocal verse. Beginning with the rarely-heard note 
of the joree — a swamp-bird of lonely and peculiar habits— he will 
reproduce with bewildering rapidity the cry of the catbird, the 
whistle of the flycatcher, the warble of the oriole, the challenge 
of the kingbird, and the call of the killdee temporarily closing 
the concert with an imitation of his own nestlings. There is no 
haste in the performance, and no part of it is slurred over. Most 
frequently it proceeds in a leisurely way calculated to tantalize 
the enthusiastic listener. Each note is distinct, and each is in- 
vested with some occult quality of attractiveness it never pos- 
sessed before. If all this mimicry is mechanical ami unconscious, 
how does it happen that the mocking bird never reproduces his 
own note of distress? I have listened fortius early and late, but 
always in vain. lie gives his note of warning and alarm, but 



A MELODIOUS MIMIC. 38 

not his note of distress. The latter is never heard until all at- 
tempts to drive intruders away from his nest have failed. It is 
a note difficult to describe, but if a low whistling sound be given 
to the first two syllables of "durivage," something remotely re- 
sembling the bird's note of distress will be the result. Its tone is 
subdued and mournful, and it is impossible to conceive of any- 
other sound in bird-la n gunge that so nearly compels a pathetic 
interpretation. 

I am inclined to believe that the autumn performances of the 
mocking bird are more picturesque than his spring concerts, par- 
ticularly if the season, as frequently happens at the South, has a 
hint of spring, as well as a touch of summer, combined with the 
mellow maturity of the fall. His restlessness is the refinement 
of the humor which we see crudely and coarsely developed in the 
antics of the circus clown who runs around doing everything, 
and yet doing nothing. He flies from tree to tree, singing little 
snatches of song, delightful reminders of the moods of spring. 
He makes little excursions in the air in all directions, and, return- 
ing, drops upon the burnt-out grass on the terraces, whereon he 
runs nimbly, lifting now and again his white-flecked wings, as if 
to mock the memory of his April ardors. Growing more com- 
posed as the afternoon wanes, he resumes his position in the top 
of the poplar, a point of view from which he can safely witness 
the development of events. Sometimes the vagrant wind, appre- 
ciating his mood, will send a flake of thistle-down up to him. 
Perhaps he recognizes the messenger and understands the mes- 
sage. Springing into the air, and poising gracefully for a mo- 
ment, he will seize the thistle-down and bear it away to his perch, 
where he sits and swings with acuriousair of demureness. Pres- 
ently, he tosses the thistle-down thoughtfully aside, watching it 



U THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

attentively, as it slowly sails away. Then, when it has become a 
mere ghost of a speck in the sky, he will flutter after it, pursuing 
it with song and wing across the orchards and over the fields. 

There arc nights and nights. That is to say, there are nights 
when the mocking bird sings, and nights when he is silent. These 
are his singular advantages; the night, as well as the day, is all his 
own, and he sings only when the mood is upon him. Such privi 
leges as these are inestimable. Of the twenty-four hours, gentle 
reader, how lew are your own ! You must sleep, you must eat, 
von must work, you must calculate and contrive, and you must 
make all the alarming sacrifices that society demands. You can- 
not be said to have the evening for your own, for the probability 
is that the young ladies of the neighborhood bang their pianos 
as vigorously as they do their hair; and even if there is no chorus 
of pianos, you will doubtless hear your neighbor across the way 
drag his chair from thesupper-tablc to the piazza, and your sense 
of freedom and possession (which the male and female hyste- 
rians call loneliness) is seriously embarrassed. The most offen- 
sive trespassers are those who never set foot on your domain, 
and you feel that your neighbor is trampling upon your rights. 
The screen of morning-glory vines, the hedge of roses and the 
stone wall between you, do not serve to render his presence less 
aggressive. Or, perhaps, the moon shines forth as a disturber of 
the peace. It is true, the moon is a famous affair with thepoets, 
but, after pleading to all their allegations, the Fact remains that 
there is nothing like the moon for destroying the wonderful per- 
spective that lies between the mind of the thoughtful man and 
the vast, deep silences of the night. It is only when the fatigued 
pianos are closed (with a bang), when your neighbor has dragged 
his chair and himself to bed, when all the lights are out, when 



A MELODIOUS MIMIC. 35 

the darkness seems to absorb and appropriate all things, that 
you stand, face to face, with the invisible, mysterious forces of 
nature. What is it that comes out of the far woods, and takes 
possession of the garden ? What is it that accompanies the vast 
pulsations of silence that rise and fall with the wind ? What is 
this vague, incomprehensible presence that seems to stand by 
your side and fill all the earth with new and thrilling mystery? 
Nothing fits the mood and the hour as completely as the penetrat- 
ing voice of the mocking bird. Without warning, he will break 
forth from the cedar bush, and repeat his melodious dreams to 
the spirit of the darkness. Whether the song be loud and per- 
sistent, or subdued and fragmentary, it leaves one imbued with 
that feeling of delicious restfulness which impels a little child, in 
the middle watches of the night, to lift its face, kiss its mother, 
and sink back to slumber. 

Joel Chandi.ki; Harris. 



«- 



3G THOUGHT HLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



"THE PATHOS OF OUR DESTINY." 

Somewhere I heard a -sudden, like a cry, 

These mournful words, "The pathos of our destiny." 

Ah! why, Great Force, is all this agony and smart, 

Why was our little world so set apart, 

For all this heartbreak, separation, woe, 

Why are we crucified and scourged so? 

This earth is fair and sweet; no planet seen or yet unseen 

Can match the splendor of its glory and its bloom , 

What does the radiant picture with all its beauty mean? 

A smile— a burst of tears — and then— the tomb — 

The tomb that opens or that shuts, who knows 

Whether it puts an end to all, or does unclose? 

All that we know, or feel, or think, is this: 

Life is a smile, a word, a tear, a kiss, 

And a vast, awful yearning for some final bliss. 

Ah ! must this "pathos of our destiny" forever be 

A cruel, measureless and speechless mystery? 

Mkl R. Colquitt. 






' f) 

















MY JOSEPHINE. 

Tnere was a France, tnere Was a queen, 
Tnere Was another Josephine, 
Wr\ose gentle love and tender art, 
Subdued Napoleon's soldier I\eart. 



But sne of France Was ne'er I ween, 
Fairer tY\ar\ tnou — My Josephine; 
To storrr\ tny n e art I'll boldly plan, 
God! if I Were tl\e Corsican- 



ROBT. LOVEMAN. 



GENIUS. 39 



GENIUS. 

Genius, like a caged eagle, beats his wings 
Against the bars of Pate, in dumb despair; 
Yearning to breathe his native upper air, 
And quench his thirst at the Pierian springs; 
But, vilely mated with earth's baser things, 
Forced his celestial birthright to forswear, 
He must abide his doom, endure, forbear, 
Till Death appears and ends his sufferings; 
Vet, thou martyred Genius! chained, confined, 
Beating thy wings in vain against the bars, 
Think of the heavenly heritage still thine— 
As sovereign ruler over sonl and mind, 
And heir-apparent of the eternal stars, 
How glorious is thy state, and how divine! 

Charles W. Hurner. 



40 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



IN SOUTHERN HOMES. 
(selected.) 

The early springtime brings, through the broad stretches of 
country under Southern skies, a stir and penetration into what 
Carlyle strongly calls "the open secret," that great deep heart of 
nature which shows itself to the "seeing eye" in a thousand 
wonderful revelations, and throbs, for those who keep the hand 
close in hers, with pulsations of full and varied meaning. Every 
ten days or so there comes a sweep of blizzard breath from the 
sister states of the Northwest, bearing a message of winter still, 
of ice and snow, huddling cattle and storm-pressed travelers; but 
in this sunlit land the calendar of the year has begun anew. One 
walks at noon or at sunset with the swing of green alder tassels 
along the roadways, the waving of maple blossoms high in air, 
the bursting of redbuds, the swell of lithe willow r twigs, and the 
tangle of yellow jasmine flung from tree to tree in the fragrant 
woods. 

The fields and their dusk}' laborers have been taking things 
easily since the Christmas-time, the latter claiming the full privi- 
leges of freedom. No right-minded son of Africa on a Southern 
plantation would deign to take even a look towards the 
shovel and the plough until every cent of last 3'ear's money 
was spent. 

"What's de use er workin' all de year ef yer don't take nary 
hol'day on yer money?" 



IN SOUTHERN HOMES. 41 

With the flush of life on the hillsides, while the fields are dun 
and brown and still unfurrowed, the shooting season reaches its 
height, and in every country home which is not bereft and moss- 
grown there is a grand house party. All the men who are asked 
will come quickly enough in response to the invitation for a 
"dove-hunt." It means to the ladies of the family, and the 
maidens who come from the city to swell the circle, a good deal 
more in effort than the sport itself, for the menu and the enter- 
tainment is by no means limited to bird pie, though by courtesy 
that is the proper and prominent dish. There are drives and 
walks and interchange of dinners; evening card parties, tete-a-teies , 
moonlight promenades on the long piazza or under the shining 
leaves of the wild olive hedges along the avenue. The daintiest 
of morning and afternoon gowns are taken from the recesses of 
the old mahogany armoire, and worn with a recklessness of 
rough usage found only with youth and in the country. Love 
and flirtation come with the house party. A particular field has 
been baited for weeks by a daily scattering of wheat and oats; 
the birds soon find it out, and come by hundreds for the picking. 
The shooting-time is after four in the afternoon, and as early as 
the dawn, if possible, in the morning. A number of small-sized 
darkies and a company of dogs are a necessary part of the 
sportsman's retainers. A well-trained pointer, like old Blanche, 
who carries her mark of honorable service in a load of shot in a 
drooping left shoulder, will flush a covey of partridges from the 
low grass, or send up a whir of doves from a field of broom- 
sedge, with as much skill and reserve power as a detective whose 
man flies with a breath. A moment later, when the discharge 
has come, with all her followers she bounds over the fields, and 
the birds are brought back without a single missing one, and laid 



42 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

at the sportsman's feet. The record frequently runs into the 
hundreds when the meet is good. Each man keeps his own score 
with great pride. To bring down a white dove means a tribute 
of two birds from each hunter. This free, open country life at 
the South, or indeed anywhere, as it rolls through the procession 
of the year, is all-fascinating in the extreme to those who recog- 
nize the kinship it establishes with life and nature. The sweep 
and moan of winter winds through the tall pines, the overarch- 
ing blue, the gray of leafless trees, the glistening of green things 
in the spring sunlight, the echo of the guns, the bark of the jubi- 
lant dogs, the songs of the hunters returning through the dusk, 
the burning of logs, the break-up of hillside and valley in deep, 
rich furrows — all these Millet touches crowd the thought as one 
turns the face towards the cities, and there is an impulse to call 
afar to those who sit at the wheel and turn, whether it be by 
fashion's or fate's command: "Good friends, at some happy 
pause-time in the year, try to get close to Mother Nature, on 
whose bosom you are to rest at last. Feel the serenity of her 
great strength, the inspiration of her purity, creep over and calm 
your spirit and your senses." The colored brother's philosophy 
is not so bad, after all: "What's the use?" Wear the old hat, 
the old gown, the old boots ; lose a few dollars in the strife, if it 
must be; but once through the year, if it be possible, stand next 
to God and the better self. 

In the growing towns of the South which lie on the through 
routes and lines of travel there is an ambitious character of 
fashion and style in proportionate degree to the large cities with 
which they are closely connected. The latest ideas are attempted 
in public buildings, business and homes, and in the lay-out of 
social forms and matters. One has frequently the same feeling 



IN SOUTHERN HOMES. 43 

as in going from Paris to Brussels, or in reversing the opera 
glass. The old towns, however, that are somewhat out at elbow 
have still a dignity and repose which, in spite of the edging and 
pushing of a commercial spirit that will inevitably put them in 
the line of traffic at last, invests them with an atmosphere of 
serenity, of graciousness and courtesy, that impresses like the 
calm, quiet smile of a silver-haired hostess. The broad streets, 
some a hundred or more feet wide, with a boulevard of live oaks 
through the centre; the old churches of red brick, green yards, 
and stately trees around ; the old colonial houses, separated per- 
haps from a new Queen Anne neighbor by a garden of roses and 
violets, and scarlet and purple verbena beds; the low gateways, 
neat white walks, and encircling piazzas everywhere-all these 
old landmarks and plantings hold their own, and shed their in- 
fluence in the face of electric lights and street railways. 

The women of the South are yet in that transition stage 
which must come between earnest inquiry and interest and the 
full acceptance of the new methods and opportunities for women. 
They are naturally anxious to know of their increased privileges, 
and to see the open doors, but there is no aggressiveness. On the 
contrary, the tvpical Southern woman, though active and capa- 
ble, always prefers to feel and to have the world believe that the 
men of the family are the leaders, fully able to take care of all 
affairs save those in the home. She may in truth work herself 
to death, and take all sorts of shifts and turns in private, but 
this is her creed, inherited from grandmothers' grandmothers of 
the long ago. She believes, as old Uncle Harvey on the planta- 
tion puts it, "De head ur de fambly ought ter alius hab same 
money in his pocket." 



44 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

The progress of development in the woman's world therefore 
lies much in social lines— literary clubs, art clubs, afternoon teas, 
etc. No explosive questions are proposed ; the trend of thought 
follows a mental current with no underflow of reform in any 
way ; questions of art, of literature, of travel, are all discussed 
at the delightful afternoon fortnightlies, held in the different 
parlors, with astonishing clearness and closeness. One might 
venture to say that the greatest readers and deepest students 
are usually found among women away from the centres. They 
get from reading what their sisters in the whirl gain by absorp- 
tion. 

In the lack of caterer or pastry cook, the Southern woman 
must be able, though, not only to write and present her paper on 
Michael Angelo or Ibsen, but she must also have, in advance, 
mixed her salads and prepared the ices and sherbets, to say noth- 
ing of the charlotte russe and cakes, that are to follow the feast 
of reason on the club's "open days." If her knowledge or man- 
agement fall short here, that part of her entertainment, under 
the regime of the new "freedom" servants, will certainly be a 
failure. 

An afternoon tea in the old Southern home, tisually situated 
a little on the outskirts of the town, has a character all its own. 
There is not a thought of closed windows or gaslight. Parlors, 
hallway, guest-chamber, all have an air of openness and welcome 
entirely free from reserve or formality. If cordiality of manner 
is now the fashion, it has always had its home with a Southern 
hostess, who is willing to give herself and her personal service to 
her friends. But then she has not such a long list, and in the 
old-time parlors, where three or four generations look down 
from the walls, the gentlewomen gathered together know each 



IN SOUTHERN HOMES. 45 

other well, and there is no bridge of "making acquaintance" to 
be crossed. The decorations of rooms and table in Southern 
entertainments are of necessity the result of home materials and 
home taste. The long gray moss, the bamboo vine, palms, and 
palmettoes, conservatory and garden flowers in season, are ar- 
ranged uniquely and profusely — the first always over archways, 
doorways, and pictures. A thin curtain of drooping asparagus 
branches, arranged as smilax at the North, is sometimes hung as 
a filmy veil of green mist with beautiful effect in front of the 
long mirror or pier glass. Clusters of tropical fruits — bananas, 
pineapples, oranges — and bunches of early strawberries with 
leaves and white blossoms, rest on a bed of green banked along 
the mantel. At a "pink literature" tea the flowers were roses in 
profusion, supplemented by tall vases of the stately plume-shaped 
blossoms of the exquisite crape-myrtle, known onty at the South, 
and all quivering and a-tremble in its delicacy. The tint of pink 
runs through the menu, from the frosting of the almond cake to 
the coloring of the cream. The snowy cloth of the centre table 
is looped at one corner with a full bow of wide pink satin rib- 
bon with pendent ends. Small tables about and around and by 
the open windows give coziness to the quartettes, and one sips 
the coffee or tea or chocolate, with its touch of whipped cream, 
served from an old silver service, of which the coffee-urn in its 
antique shape reminds one of a Russian samovar. To have and 
to hold these old heirlooms, to gather one's friends and make an 
extra effort to serve them as of old, is a kind of noblesse oblige with 
a Southern woman, even where the tide of fortune is hopelessly 
gone from her threshold. The spirit of ancestry dies hard, if 
ever. 



46 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

The Southern tea closes with the garden stroll, an al fresco 

S3 r mposium, with no need of wrap or protecting veil. Under the 

waning sunlight the guests ramble to the trellised summerhouse 

or grape arbors, plucking souvenir bits of sweet-scented vanilla 

grass or white jasmine, until the bells in the town ring the close 

of the day, and then one after another the carriages roll down 

the broad drive. 

Emma Moffett Tyng. 



MY MOTHER'S OLD STEEL THIMBLE. 47 

MY MOTHER'S OLD STEEL THIMBLE. 

I've been rummaging a casket, filled with relics of the past, 
And I turned them idly, one by one, until I found at last, 
Wrapped in a piece of homespun and laid away with care, 
The dingy old steel thimble that my mother used to wear. 

Oh! what a flood of memory sweeps in upon my soul, 

As the coarse and faded covering I carefully unroll, 

Till dim with dust of useless years, I see before me there, 

The battered old steel thimble that my mother used to wear. 

Rough with the toil of mother-love, in cheerless days of yore, 
It was the only ornament those dear hands ever wore, 
And I tenderly caress it as a treasure rich and rare, 
This precious old steel thimble that my mother used to wear. 

Companion of her widowhood, her faithful friend for years, 

Made sacred by her patient toil and sanctified by tears; 

No costly gem that sparkles on the hand of lady fair, 

Can match the old steel thimble that my mother used to wear. 

In a quiet little churchyard she has slumbered many a year, 
Yet in this holy hour I seem to feel her presence near, 
And hear her benediction as I bow in grateful prayer, 
And kiss the old steel thimble that my mother used to wear. 

The memory of that mother's love shall be a beacon light, 
To guide my wayward footsteps in the path of truth and right, 
And the key that opens Heaven's door, if e'er I enter there, 
Will be the old steel thimble that my mother used to wear. 

Lucius Perry Hills. 



4 



4M THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FBOM TIIK SOUTH. 



THIv PRACTICAL AND THE POETIC. 

Not man; truths so useful offer themselves for recognition 
by .ill mankind as that there is no conflict or incompatibility be- 
tween the practical and the poetic. Devotion to the one involves 
no infidelity to the other. Indeed, the accurate adjustment of 
our lives, thoughts and feelings to either, requires a like adjust- 
ment to both. To be wholly practical, or wholly poetic, is a de- 
fect in character. How to be each in due season and degree is 
one of the most delieate problems we have to solve. In propor- 
tion .-is we cultivate the practical, we are prone to become indiffer- 
ent to the poetic; and in proportion as we indulge or yield to the 
poetie, we are prone to neglect the practical. The dealer in fruit 
cares too little lor Mowers, and the dealer in flowers regards fruit 
.is secondary and subordinate. Nature makes no such mistake. 
She produces both on the same tree, and cherishes each in its fit 
time and proper relation. 

We should imitate nature in breadth, bounty and variety. We 
should not be altogether tropical, nor altogether temperate, nor 
altogether frigid. Bach one of us should represent all the zones, 
not a single zone. 

The way to do this is to guard against narrowness and ex- 
clusiveness. We should give all our faculties and sympathies 
occupation and exercise; Iced and nourish them all, not starve 
some and unduly pamper the others. 

Some persons have a coarse contempt for the poetic, and 
others have a refined contempt for the practical. Both classes of 



TEE PRACTICAL AND THE POETIC. 49 

these antipodal characters are wont to vaunt their contempt, 
and make a boast of the same. Alas, alas, that we should ever 
be proud of our own narrowness and incompleteness — that we 
should rejoice because we are mutilated and dismembered! 

Let us endeavor to be neither over-practical nor under-practi 
cal, neither too poetic, nor deficient in the poetic, but to establish 
and maintain in ourselves the right rhythm of both, and a true 
harmony between them 

There is no good reason why the finest lady in the land should 
not be equally excellent in broiling a beefsteak and in writing a 
sonnet. If any lady will do both daily, she will find pleasure in 
both occupations. 

The poet laureate might be the queen's head cook without 
compromizing his real dignity or impairing his aesthetic efficiency. 

We have the same product if we idealize the material, or ma- 
terialize the ideal. 

The great desideratum is a consistent blending of the two ele- 
ments in one and the same personality. 

Logan E. Bleckley. 



r,(> THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

CHRISTMAS DAY IN SOUTHERN GEORGIA. 

A cloud less sky above a white, Bandy soil. At small intervals 
the surface of this porous earth is broken by pine trees which rise 
slender, straight and tall, seemingly proud of their strength and 
growth. Their glistening, green fibers form the strings to a thou- 
sand harps that, .Kolian-like, eateh the soft zephyrs which thus 
nun nun- a song, so sad and gentle that its tones Call upon the ear 
of the listener like the sound of summer rain upon a new-made 
grave. 

Christmas day ! The glorious wealth of sunbeams laugh and 
dance and quiver among the shadows. They rejoice at theireasy 
task! All nature within their reach is kept astir by their warmth, 
while in the far north their brother sun beams in vain try to reach 
the buds and blossoms buried in their brown, leal v bed, beneath 
the sheets of snow and ice. 

A buggy comes lazily crunching over the sandy road. A 
maiden with face aglow from youth and hope looks out upon 
the scene before her, and utters gladsomely thecry, "( )li, life is 
full of joy and beauty !" Her lover, at her side, smiling down at 
her eager, upturned face, echoes in his heart her earnest words. 

A bird sings a joyous enrol, and blended with it rises another 
melody as sweet as it is different. A darky lad with bare, dusty 
feel sits on a charred stninp, hugging to his breast his greatest 
treasure — an old banjo. His fingers fondly touch the strings. 
His lace is a picture of artless happiness. His eyes half close in 
satisfaction, while a double row of gleaming white ivory stands 

wide apart , the gateway of the song which comes forth, untutored, 
but melodious, to mingle with that of the bird. Two Christmas 
carols from two happy hearts in sunny Southern Georgia. 

Gertrude Eloise Bealer. 




CHRISTMAS i>\\ |\ SOUTHERN GEORGIA. 



DURANTE VITA. 53 



DURANTE VITA. 

He did not find his path in life 

With roses strewn ; 
Nor were the bells of his heart-hopes 

In sweet attune. 

But in the night's environment 

Was Love, and God, 
And truth, with Faith's white star above 

The chastening rod ! 

Lollie Belle Wylie. 



54 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



JACOB LADD'S CHANGE OF HEART. 

The cats, the dogs, the cattle and the chickens instinctively 
shunned Farmer Jacob Ladd. He was harsh with his hard- 
working wife, had been unkind to his only son, and a bitter, 
unreasoning hatred rankled in his heart against many men. 

His wife, a gentle and timid woman, was beloved by people 
who feared and hated her husband . 

In the little shed-room, back of the room where her husband 
sat in the doorway, she was busily at work mending a quilt. 
Another woman was in the room — a neighbor who, for the sake 
of seeing Mrs. Ladd, had braved the chance of encountering 
Jacob. 

Mrs. Ladd paused in her work, and said with a sigh : 

"Did yersee ther pore critter, Mis'Lindsey? They passed right 
along by our gate. I tried to keep from lookin' at 'im 'ca'se I 
couldn't bear to see his sufferin'. The idea o' Poke Baker, if he 
is a sheriff, drivin' a pore boy 'long the big road, jest as if he 
was a yearlin' calf, 'fore he's been proved guilty o' the murder! 
It's a shame!" 

"Yes," the other admitted, "they ought to treat 'im human; 
but I reckon the's no doubt under the sun 'at he killed Squire 
Broadenax. He laid all night close by the Broadenaxes', an' 
when they cotch 'im in Spring Place he had two hundred dollars 
in 'is pocket. I reckon he did the killin' ; fer how could a pore 
tramp like 'im, 'thout a whole rag to 'is back, have so much 
money?" 



JACOB LADD'S CHANGE OF HEART. 55 

Mrs. Ladd sighed again, and her motherly face grew more 
serious. She let the quilt glide to the floor. 

"It looks mighty bad," she said. "They'll likely find 'im 
guilty an' hang 'im for it, pore boy! He passed as nigh to me 
as that bedpost, an' it made me think o' my Tobe. Who knows 
whar on earth my boy is to-day? I haint hardly been able to 
close my eyes for the last month, for thinkin' about 'im. I'm 
afeared he's dead ; Texas is mighty onhealthy." 

"I haint had a letter from him in more than two months," 
she went on presently. "It's been two year sence he let his 
father's hoss drownd, and Jacob driv' 'im off." 

She told again the sad story, familiar to her guest; how 
Tobe had driven the horse into the river, ignorant that the water 
had risen ; how the animal had become entangled in the harness, 
and had drowned in spite of the boy's efforts to save him ; and 
how his father had driven him away, and forbidden him to 
return until he could bring back the money that the horse had 
cost. 

"I believe he's dead," Mrs. Ladd sighed. 

She wiped her eyes on her needle-punctured fingers, and went 
slowly over to a wooden box in a corner. Raising the lid, she 
lifted out a black coat and waistcoat, a pair of trousers of light 
color, and a pair of calfskin boots with high heels and red tops. 

"His Sunday clothes," she explained, huskily. "Tobe was 
mighty proud of 'em, but he wouldn't take 'em with 'im. He 
said he wanted to rough it — that he didn't want to put on style; 
he said I could save 'em till he got back. But he 'lowed if he 
never did git back, for me to give 'em to some feller that needed 
'em." 



!"><; THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

Jacob Ladd still sat in the doorway. The dusk was falling 
over the hushed earth, when a man under a slouched hat rode up. 

"Hello, Jake!" he called out, pausing at the gate. 

Ladd rose quickly and went to him. 

"I've seed 'em all," said the man, in a whisper. "We'll meet 
at the store to-night at 'leven. Morgan is in for it, heart an' 
soul. He Mows hangin' is too good for such a cold-blooded 
rascal." 

"All right," said Ladd, "I'll be thar. We'll save the county 
the expense of a long trial. It'll be that much in the pockets o' 
the taxpayers." 

It was late in the night at the crossroad store. Peter 
Morgan, the storekeeper, had closed and locked the door, and 
stood leaning against it. Some twenty rough men were sitting 
and standing about in whispering groups. The last two to 
arrive were Jacob Ladd and a burly black man. 

"You fetched Ike, I see," remarked Morgan, as he cautiously 
admitted them. 

"Of course!" grunted Ladd. "Who else kin climb a tree like 
him? You know he's afeared to give us away, an' he is fond o' 
sech amusements." 

The negro smiled grimly. 

"Well, we are all here, I believe," said Morgan, "and as fur 
as I'm able to see, ye're all of one mind. But to make shore, I'll 
put it to a vote. All in favor hold up the right hand." 

Every hand in the room was raised. 

The storekeeper handed out a coil of new rope. 

"That's the stuff," said Ladd, taking it in his hand, and 
handing it to the negro. "Make yore knot, Ike, or I'll have 
t'other eend for yore neck." 



JACOB LADD'S CHANGE OF HEAllT. 57 

Ike smiled good-humoredly, tied the knot quickly and passed 
the rope to the group of men nearest him. They nodded as if 
satisfied, and handed it back, some of them refusing to touch it. 

Ladd took a lantern and led the silent band from the store 
and down the little shaded forest road to the village, where the 
jail stood. 

Ladd rapped upon the jail door with the head of his walking- 
stick, and his fellows moved up close behind. 

"Hello! Who's thar?" sounded in gruff tones from the room 
oecupied by the jailor and his wife. 

"Git Up an' see, Nelse Murray !" answered Ladd. 

The men pressed nearer together. Some of them drew their 
revolvers and pulled their hats down over their eyes. Ladd's 
face was entirely hidden. 

A chain rattled on the door and a pale, bearded face appeared 
in a slight opening. 

"What's it you want?"asked the jailor, in an unsteady voice. 

"Jest yore prisoner, Murray, that's all," replied Ladd, in a 
guttural, unrecognizable voice. The others crowded about him. 
"Turn over yore keys an' go back ter bed ; we'll do the rest." 

"Boys," exclaimed the jailor, "this ain't right. The prisoner 
haint been proved guilty. Go off, an' let me do my duty." 

Murray was trembling so violently that the rattling of the 
chain on the door could be heard. Ladd cooly cocked his re- 
volver. A dozen other weapons clicked. 

"Hold on ! Give 'ima minute!"exclaimed Ladd. The jailor's 
hand suddenly came out into the moonlight. A bunch of keys 
rattled in his fingers and fell jingling upon a stone step. 

"I wash my hands uv ye," the jailor faltered. 



58 rnouaiir blossoms from the soi/m. 

Ladd unlocked the door, and the men entered. They gathered 
around a large cage of iron in the middle of the room, in which 
they saw, by the light of the lantern, a handsome man about 
twenty-two years old. 

"I see what you want," said the young prisoner, "but I'll 
swar I'm not guilty ! I didn't kill that man — I don't know any- 
thing about it. Give me a chance to prove it !" 

"Tell that to some other gang o' 'white caps,' " said Ladd, 
coolly unlocking the cage and leading the man out. "You needn't 
bother to spend yore wind — you'll need it atter awhile. Tie 'is 
hands, Ike, an' put the rope 'roun' 'is neck." 

Most ot the band were awed by the prisoner's cool deport- 
ment. A sudden look of angry fearlessness seemed to sweep over 
his young face. As the negro approached him, he voluntarily 
crossed his hands behind his back for them to be tied. 

"All right," he said, in a tone of resignation, mixed with 
contempt. "I'll show yer how an honest man kin die when he's 
overpowered by a mob o' cowards. Lead the way !" 

Ladd preceded the prisoner and Ike down the stairs ; the 
others brought up the rear. Silently they crossed the shaded 
courtyard, passed out into the open moonlight in the street, and 
entered the woods. 

"What time is it?" asked Jacob Ladd, of a man by his side. 

"I dunno," was the reply, and the speaker shuddered at the 
sound of his own voice. 

"It's about quarter atter two," said the prisoner, very calmly. 
"I heerd the clock strike twice jest 'fore you fellers knocked on 
the door." 

livery man that heard the voice seemed to feel a cold hand 
upon his heart. Presently Ike stopped the prisoner beneath a 



JACOB LADD'8 CHANGE OF HEART. 59 

huge oak, and looked around with a question in his gleaming 
eyes. 

"This one'll do," said Badd, in an uneven voice. Then, at his 
command, Ike hung the rope over the lowest limb of the tree. 

"If yer hev any prayer ter pray, say it 'fore I give the order," 
said Ladd. 

"My prayers are said, thank yer," said the young man ; "but 
I've got a straight request to leave behind me, if ther's one among 
yer that 'ud like to see justice done." 

"Out with it, then," said Ladd. As he spoke he let the rope 
fall slack. 

"I've done said I'm innocent, so I won't go over that. But 
I've tramped it all the way from Texas to do somethin' for a 
dyin' man, an' this hangin' will prevent it. That money, two 
hundred dollars, 'at the sheriff tuk from me, an' which he intends 
to hand over to the dead man's wife, don't b'long ter her, and 
never was in the possession of the man that was killed. 

"Ye all 'low I'm guilty, 'ca'se I had that money, an' couldn't 
tell the man's name I was fetchin' it to. Now I was away out 
on the prairie in North Texas, twenty mile from a white man's 
house, when I run acrost a young man by 'isse'f in a cabin, jest 
about to die with a fever. Thar wasn't nobody in reach, so I 
couldn't get help. Jest 'fore he died he give me that money, an' 
made me promise to take it to his father. 

"He said he owed it to 'im fer a boss he drownded, an' bed 
promised to pay fer. He hed jest told me that his father lived in 
this county, an' started to tell his name, when he tuk a fit o' 
coughin', an' died 'thout makin' it known. 

"I buried 'im thar, an' tramped all the way here, 'ca'se I had 
no money o' my own. But so many young fellers has gone West 
'at I couldn't find the father o' this one. 



60 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

"All I want to ax is thet some o' you will try to see thet 
justice is done, in case anything turns up ter prove me innocent 
atter I'm gone. Now I'm ready." 

Every eye in the group was directed toward Jacob Ladd. He 
was leaning against a young tree, as pale as death. 

"What was the boy's name?" he gasped, staring the prisoner 
in the face. 

"I tol' yer I didn't know," replied the other. 

"Did he have red hair an' blue eyes?" 

"Yes, an' a blood-red birthmark on his cheek." 

Ladd was quivering in every limb and feature. The men had 
dropped the rope as if it had stung their hands. The whole 
forest seemed hushed in suspense. 

The prisoner began to look around him in astonishment, but 
he could meet nobody's eyes. 

"O my boy!" burst from Ladd's lips, and he staggered 
toward the bound man; "is he dead?" 

"Who?" 

"The boy that give you the money." 

"Yes, an' under the ground. I buried 'im the best I could. 
Do you know anything about 'im?" 

"He was my son !" 

Almost without a word the \ r oung man was released. The 
mob gradually dispensed, and Ladd was left alone with him. 

"Come along with me," said Ladd. "I'll see you clear with 
the sheriff. I want you to tell the boy's mother about it." 

By and by they reached Ladd's cottage. The light from 
the kitchen fire shone through the window. 

"She's up a'ready," said Ladd. "You wait here till I go and 
sorter break it to her." 



JACOB LADD' 8 CHANGE OF HEART. 61 

He leaned wearily against the fence, and Ladd staggered 
across the potato patch and entered the door. The stranger 
listened, expecting to hear some sound of grief from the house, 
but it did not come. In a few moments Ladd emerged from the 
house and came slowly toward him. 

"She takes it mighty quiet," he said, "an' haint a word to 
say 'bout our treatment o' you. But that'll come atter she's 
over t' other shock. She said to bring you in ; come on." 

Mrs. Ladd was standing in front of the fire when they entered. 
She went across the creaking floor to get a chair, which she 
placed near the hearth for the visitor. A sunbonnet hid her face, 
and she did not look up. 

The visitor sat down. His bare toes showed through his 
shoes. A nude knee parted a wide rent in his trousers, and his 
elbows were exposed. 

Ladd muttered something to his mute wife about going out 
to feed his horses, and slunk from the room. 

"You mus' be hongry," Mrs. Ladd said; and she raised a 
most pallid, woe-begone visage. "I'll have breakfast ready in a 
few minutes." 

She gave him food, and then showed him the way into the 
little bedroom, where Tobe had slept. Before he retired, he told 
her the story of the boy's death and burial. No tears came to 
the woman's eyes as she heard the recital, but she staggered as 
she went about her work. 

He had slept soundly fifteen minutes before she cautiously put 
her gray head in at the door. She shrank back as if she had been 
smitten in the face, when she saw the outlines of his form under 
the covers of the bed her son had used. Then she stole into the 



62 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

room, and softly lifted the sleeper's tattered clothing and shoes 
from a chair near the bed, and bore them back to her room. 

She looked at them aghast ; they were beyond repair. For 
twenty minutes she sat helplessly looking at the heap of rags, 
unable to think. A tear of pity for the young man asleep in the 
adjoining room cameinto her eye, although she had not yet wept 
over the death of her only child. 

All at once her breast heaved. She arose, and going to the 
box in the corner, took out the suit of clothes she had shown her 
neighbor the day before. 

"It 'ud be a shame to 'low 'im to go away in them rags," she 
muttered softly; and all at once she buried her rigid face in the 
clothing, and held it theie for a silent moment. "Besides, Tobe 
'lowed if he never come back, to give 'em to some feller 'at needed 
'em ;an' yitl wisht I might a-kep' 'em, to look atoncein awhile." 

She measured the two suits together; she put the soleless shoe 
against the bottoms of the high-heeled boots, and was satisfied 
with the measurement. Then she folded the ragged clothes up in 
a bundle, and put them behind some rubbish in a corner. 

Taking the other suit and the boots, she placed them noise- 
lessly upon the chair near the stranger's bed, and softly with- 
drew. 

About three hours later the guest put his head cautiously out 
of his room and caught her eye. 

"I cayn't find my clothes," he said. 

"I left t'others for yer," she said, huskily; and she coughed 
a little behind her hand. "Yore'n was 'bout played out. Yore 
welcome to 'em — I reckon they'll fit yer." 

When he came out wearing the suit, and she looked up sud- 
denly and saw him standing near the water-shelf , she fell to shak- 



JACOB L ABB'S CHANGE OF HEART. 63 

ing so violently that the pan she held fell to the floor. She stooped 
to pick it up, and without giving him another glance, quickly left 
the room. 

While the young man stood in the door, Ladd and the sheriff 
rode up to the gate and called him to them. They had come to 
restore the money that had been taken from him, and to tell him 
that a man had been arrested in the next county with Broade- 
nax's money in his possession, and that the man had confessed 
the crime. 

The young man took the money. 

"Thar's the money yore boy sent yer," he said to Ladd. "An' 
now I think I'll go. I've been away from my folks fer three 
year, an' I aint thought much about home, but somehow I've got 
the strongest hankerin' to see my mammy lever had in all my life. 
Good-by. Tell your wife I'm much obleeged fer 'er kindness. \ 
know how she feels, an' I won't bother 'bout tellin' 'erfarewell." 

Ladd tried to speak, but could not. He walked on down the 
road by the young man's side to a tree where his favorite mare 
was tied. There were tears in his eyes, and his features were 
softer than they had been since his childhood. 

"Hold on," he said. He put his hand upon the neck of the 
mare, and looked appealingly into his companion's face. "Fer 
heaven's sake, don't refuse what I'm agwine to ax yer," he be- 
gan. "I b'lieve on my soul I'll die if yer do! You've got forty 
mile to go— I want to give you m£ mare, fer yo' ter keep fer good. 
I've packed some victuals in the saddlebags. Don't refuse me." 

"I cayn't take yore hoss, man," said the other. "You needn't 
feel like I'm agwine to harbor any ill-will agin yer. I aint that 
sort." 



64 Thought blossoms from the south. 

"Yer must take 'er!" groaned the farmer. "I cay n't take no 
refusal." 

The young man looked into the streaming old eyes for a mo- 
ment ; then he said : 

"All right, sence yer insist on it. I think I see what's both- 
erin' yer, an' if I kin he'p yer, I'm willin'." 

Ladd watched the horseman ride away. 

When he was almost out of sight down the long road Ladd 
turned, and found his wife at his side. Her face was as hard in 
expression as a statue's. But she showed surprise when she no- 
ticed the tears in her husband's eyes, and transfigured visage. 

She looked away in the sunshine after the departing horse 
and rider. Then her face lighted up with sudden eagerness. 

"Did you give 'im Betty, Jacob?" she asked. 

He nodded. 

She wavered an instant ; then threw her arms around him, and 
with her white head on his breast, burst into tears. 

Will N. Harben. 



x->$^^^<-» 



FRUITION. 65 



FRUITION. 

The bluff road is all beauty in midsummer. A long stretch of 
gray macadam skirting a silver river, winding for miles at the 
base of sombre mountains and rich fields. This evening soft, 
gray clouds piled up in the west, and purple thistles, and thistles 
seeded in gray mist waved along the borders of the road. A 
field of ripened grain studded with trees heavy with rudd_v fruit, 
looked triumphantly up to greet the evening star, while one 
bright streak of red-gold sky beneath the gray, smiled benefi- 
cently on both meadow and star. 

From the leafy covert of the forest trees resounded the vesper 
song of the cicada, and the sweet-souled mocking bird. Grasses, 
green and tender, waved tremulously in the cool air beside the 
primrose, which held its golden chalice for a quaff of honeydew. 

Two old ladies with gray locks, and nearing the gray part of 
life's journey, were thirsty too, and had just stopped their horse 
at a wayside cot for a cup of cold water. 

While the old ladies were engaged in allaying their thirst, a 
spanking team, with a girl in white and a young man holding 
the ribbons dashed by. "There!"' said Madame Graylocks, her 
face as stern as a threatening cloud; "look at that jade. See 
how close she sits to the man in the buggy ; in my day things 
were not so." 

"Oh! well, now," spoke the other dame, "sheis a pretty child; 
don't judge, but look rather at that little curl of gold nestling on 
the lace at the neck of her gown." 



66 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

"Yes," said Madame Graylocks, and giving her horse a vigor- 
ous pull followed the pair down the road. "Yes, but just let us 
watch them, and maybe your tenderness will turn to—" 

"How beauteous is youth and its hopes, how fondly the 
man leans toward the girl!" interposed the other softly. 

"Fondly! I should say so. There, I do believe he has kissed 
her. Look, he has bobbed his head over ridiculously low, almost 
into her lap. Did you see that performance?" 

"No, I did not." 

"You never do see anything," said Madame Graylocks. 

"Oh, yes," quoth the sweet other one. "I observe that piece 
of yellow sky over there shining above the sheaves of wheat. 
Expanses of kindred gold, are they not?" 

"I could never follow you in your vagaries, "returned Madame 
Graylocks. "I am watching yonder pair. My, how carelessly 
he does drive! Such magnificent horses, and he has hardly looked 
at the reins— there, he is at it again, and her head has fallen too ; 
don't they know that we are behind?" 

"Perhaps not, my dear; love is blind." 

The cornflower nestled in the tangled ferns ; long vines trailed 
in prodigal luxury and swayed joyously over the water; 
along the silver river in the lush grasses, the reeds and the wil- 
lows whispered as they cpiiveredin the shadows of the fragrant 
summer twilight. 

A sudden turn of the horses' heads and the youthful couple 
confronted the old ladies. 

"Oh!" gasped one. 

"Ah," smiled the other. 

They beheld the young wife of a year taking her firstborn for 
a drive. A snowy lace cap' framing a rosy face was pressed 



FRUITION. 67 

against her bosom. Her husband's face was near her own and 
in his smile was all the joy, love, tenderness, that hope ever prom- 
ised or fruition realized. 

All along the bluff road rich in midsummer ripeness and glory, 
he had been gazing upon and kissing his own little new baby. 

Ethel Hillyer Harris. 



68 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



MADONNA. 

"Madonna! Madonna!" the ages ring, 
"Sweetest and dearest that God hath made." 

"Madonna! Madonna!" the spheres all sing, 
"Sun, moon and stars are at thy feet; 

For naught that God hath counted good 

Is nobler made than motherhood !" 

After a night of pain 

Like mists of fire and blood, 
Come life and the old new song, 

And her crown of motherhood. 

New music rang in her voice, 

A new light shone in her face, 
And all that she said and all that she did 

Wore a diviner grace. 

Glad was the whole dumb earth ; 

Man bowed his reverent head ; 
Archangels knelt with palms at her feet ; 

"Hail, mother!" was what they said. 

Her little one knelt at her knees, 
And whispered his evening prayer; 

The angel who guarded the gates of pearl 
Said: "Mine is not holier care." 



MADONNA. 69 

Oh, meeker than violets' bloom, 

And sweeter than roses she; 
God never hath fashioned a thing more fair 

Than motherhood's mystery ! 

A man rose up at her side, 

Though she knew no words of command ; 
He was pure as snow and strong as steel, 

B3' the grace of her guiding hand. 

"Madonna! Madonna!" the ages ring, 
"Sweetest and dearest that God hath made!" 

"Madonna! Madonna!" the spheres all sing, 
"Sun, moon and stars are at thy feet; 

For naught that God hath counted good 

Is nobler made than motherhood !" 

Myrta Lockett Avary. 



•*->$^l)(l^<-* 



70 THOUGHT JiLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



LIFE'S COMRADES. 

Lilies wooed stars and stars leaned to hear and kiss them in 
the hush and fragrance of those nights. Heaven elasped earth 
and pleaded for the caress that earth, laughing, yielded in the pur- 
ple and gold of those days. For, do you understand? Life had 
started to walk down the primrose slope, and Youth with snooded 
locks and Love withclinging hands and eyes were her companions. 
(), Life was very gay, for Youth led her only where the primroses 
were deepest and velvetiest to her feet, while Love pointed her to 
noon's empyrean, sunset-spilled roses of early evening, or fleeciest 
cossets later crowding to Selene's gentle shepherding. Love was 
dear to her, and beautiful, and a comrade she cared not to part 
with: she hoped their hands might always join and their eyes 
meet at will. But Youth was more preciously held. Youth, she 
adored. 

She would be sorrowful without Love; without Youth she 
would not be herself , but some other desolate creation. Youth 
was her leader, her guide, half merry and half demure, her sweet 
handmaiden, bringing her blossoms and fruitage, doing her gay 
bidding happily always, encompassing her with soft joyance, 
with splendid lustres, fine scents and subtle harmonies. Love was 
only her gentle friend who walked serenely beside her, and when 
her eyes were too acquainted with primroses or apples, lifted a 
directing gaze to faint, far heights of mountain, sky, or star. 

But the primroses ended one day — no one knew why — nor did 
Life pause to think; for the fair declivity was behind her, and 



LIFE'S COMRADES. 71 

she was standing, fronting a profound stream. The brooks her 
feet had stepped lightly across hitherto had only laughed in limpid 
frolic ; but the waters here were brown and grave and mystic. 

Steeped in a deep wonderment, she moved slowly on towards 
its crossing, forgetting momentarily to look for sportive guide 
or shadow-keeping friend. Beyond, arose another incline, not ar- 
duous, but austere ; and though in mazed doubt, she yet pursued her 
path up this, for the journey must be made. Suddenly a stone 
cut her foot and she cried to Youth to come and soothe the leap- 
ing pain and lead her again on velvet and perfume. Youth came 
not; but another figure bent with heart-tenderness over the tiny 
wound. Yet because she knew only that it was not Youth, the 
spoiled bright child of sun and air, drove him from her with 
petulant words, and called again for Youth, only Youth. The 
dear one came not, nor could be seen or heard. Wringing her 
hands and mourning, Life turned to recross the fatal, brown 
stream, sure that in the sunlight on the other side, she would 
soon glimpse the glinting, snooded locks, while the flute tones 
would vibrate their melodic way to her ears. 

Alas, for all backward paths ! 

There was no retracing this. The stream now rolled, an omi- 
nous, impassible flood between her and the primrose slope that 
slept dreamless beyond it, folding, perhaps, in some tranced en- 
chantment with itself, fair Youth. Never should she cross to Life, 
never should Life recross to her. 



Years swept by before Life forgot to despair or remembered 
not to dream her fadeless dream of the beautiful lost presence. 
She had journeyed desolately on as she must, nor had once been 



72 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

mindful to wonder if Love, too, had lingered in theflowered sun- 
shine with Youth, nor yet mindful to look upon the noble grace 
of the one figure that walked silently with her. Omniscience 
could scarcely tell how it came about; but finally there crept up 
from the orient a day when Life sat still to think, and thinking, 
she remembered for the first time other hands and eyes than 
Youth's. She lifted a warm glance to the solitary presence that 
had kept her loneliness company on the dragging road this side 
the river, and asked if he knew Love. Then eyes' light leaped to 
eyes' light, and ardent hands to hands; and in a sudden glory, 
Life was smitten with a pain deeper but dearer than any happi- 
ness; and a joy more durable than any pain. For she found that 
Love had never parted a moment's space from her, and her heart 
was flooded with the deep peace of knowing that through Time's 
journey and eternity's repose, he should be unfailingly her pro- 
tector and her comrade: and she leaned upon his bosom while he 
pointed her again to nearer now and more precious heights of 
mountain, sk} r , and star. 

Leonora Beck. 



If AVE YOU BEEN TRUE AMERICANS. 



73 



HAVE YOU BEEN TRUE AMERICANS? 

ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AN \ I V KRSA |{ Y OF THE DEATH OK 

WASHINGTON". 

As those mysterious sentries of the skies, 
The comets, with fixed periods, return 
About God's hidden business, so I dream 
The spirits of great human masters come 
At intervals to mark on earth the fate 
Of seeds they scattered when they dwelt with men. 
The nineteenth century is near its end. 
When sank the eighteenth in the western skies. 
Passed also from our view Columbia's sun, 
Not darkness leaving, but a roseate glow- 
Like that which lingers long in Arctic skies. 
Great Washington, the hundredth year draws nigh ! 
Thy shade, ev'n now, on deathless pinions borne 
Like arrow piercing the abyss of space 
My vision catches, speeding for this globe- 
Timing its flight to end in 'ninety-nine— 
To view the temple, whose foundations thou 
And thy immortal comrades firmly fixed, 
And did to human freedom dedicate. 
Have ye, my countrymen, in order set 
Your house to greet the visitor august? 



7t THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

Or have ye cause, like Judas at the feast, 
To turn your faces from the Master's eye ? 
He, when self-government in peril stood, 
Cast life, ambition, fortune to the winds 
And led our feeble colonies to face 
A scepter feared and courted by the world. 
Unselfish hero ! he had but to "crook 
The pregnant hinges of the knee, that thrift 
Might follow fawning." Liberal fortune his— 
The safe and mighty course to kingward lay. 
But, Heaven be praised, he was not temptablc! 
And, with the stoutest heart that ever throbbed 
In warrior-breast, through seven awful years 
He led the patriots safely to the mount 
Whereon they laid the corner stone of this 
Our house, the most unique of all the times. 
And while the wondering nations gazed in awe, 
Pledged to the world that here should be fulfilled 
The hopes deferred of tempest-tost mankind. 
Which vow to emphasize, the godlike chief— 
Sous prototype, sans prospect of successor— 
'Vironed by crowns at every compass-point, 
Loftily scorning his "Utopian dream," 
And tempting him the swaddled babe to slay, 
Which, trembling, cowered in his Ajax arms— 
With sacrifice of self unparalleled, 
Thrice-offered power immovably refused, 
And thenceforth at his rural hearthstone dwelt, 
In majesty surpassing that of kings. 
Have ve been true Americans ? Dare ye face 



HAVE YOU BEEN TRUE AMERICAN S > 75 

Th' unswerving, though invisible eye, of him 

Whose love of country towered o'er love of self? 

'Midst your ambition and the strife for gold, 

Forgotten have ye his "Address Farewell?" 

Or, joying in your blood-bought liberties, 

Have ye, beside your happy firesides, read 

To sons and daughters still with kindling eye, 

And 'raptured tone, those wisdom-jeweled words ? 

Search now your hearts, and answer! Have ye kept 

The balance 'twixt the States and Federal powers ? 

Or have ye slept whilst under forms of law 

The organism central hath usurped 

The sacred rights of government self-local ? 

Or, fired and calloused by the frenzied zeal 

Of party spirit, or tracking party pelf, 

Like very dogs of faction, overlooked 

That "public office is a public trust" ? 

Or checked by modesty, or drugged by ease, 

Base cowards, skulking in the army's rear, 

Your country have ye lent to godless men, 

Who, greedy for to-day's emolument, 

Their power, law-making or judicial, sell, 

While youth upgrowing asks, with skeptic scorn: 

"Is this the fruitage of the Fathers' sowing?" 

To charge, far be it from this humble pen ; 

But if indeed 'tis true, as men aver, 

Monopoly, the vampire, hath our throats, 

"Be of good cheer;" he hath not yet our blood ! 

The early Fathers did not strive in vain; 

The ballot sure is all-sufficient, but 



76 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

The spirit of the "embattled farmers" lives 

And burns in scions scattered o'er this land. 

The greatest of Virginians since the First 

Faced God, proclaiming for his watchword, "Duty!" 

And Southern men, when Union plainly calls. 

Will crowd to die, or "conquer by that sign." 

In nations' lives, what are a hundred years? 

Yet is this Nation but a beardless youth, 

Treading a path beset b_\ cunning knaves, 

And storing wisdom from experience gained. 

'Tis true, that in the governments of old 

Plutocracy first ruled, and then destro3^ed ; 

But, claimed "the people" in those times no rights. 

Democracy had scarce been born in dreams. 

Sweet is the 'lixir of self-government; 

More than a century have this people sucked 

Its tonic strength into their pulsing veins, 

And not the wealth of all the earth combined 

Can "turn the dial back" to Caesarism. 

Henry Clay Fairman. 



~$e~ 



VOICES OF THE SHOALS. 77 



VOICES OF THE SHOALS. 

Sunrise on Towaliga ! A clear, golden light on hill and stream. 
A new world, lifting a fresh, glad face to the kiss of morning. In 
and out, among the clambering vines that cover the ruins of yon- 
der crumbling mill, the blithe birds flutter joyously. Long, rus- 
tic bridges span the stream like silver pathways wrapped in 
gleaming mist, that lead toward the emerald slope of the hill. 

From every tree-top comes a matin hymn of praise. The 
jagged rocks that dot the creek gleam white above the foamy 
ripples. 

A slender girl, with great grey eyes and dusky hair, stands 
'neath the willow on the flower-starred bank and scatters snow- 
white petals on the stream. 

The voices of the shoals sing together — and the song is an an- 
them of joy ! 



Sunset on Towaliga ! Golden and purple, warm and glow- 
ing, the west prepares the gateway for departing day. From 
far-off fields come mellow sounds of bells, as homeward trudge 
the cows. 

An air of peace and mystery enwraps the gray old mill, and 
sleepy swallows circle 'mid the shadows of its vines. 

Dreamily the ripples glide between the curving banks, and 
dusky shadows lie 'neath every tree. 

Once more the girl is standing under the willow, but not 
alone. A manly form bends o'er her, and deep eyes look into her 
own that gaze no longer on the restless waters. Her face, alight 



78 THOUGHT BLOS80M8 FROM THE SOUTH. 

with love and trust, is lifted toward her lover's, and the sunset 
light lies on it lingeringly. 

Low words are mingled with the sounds of evening. 

The voices of the shoals sing a vesper hymn— and the song is 
.'i pasan of love. 

Midnight on Towaliga. 

A pallid radiance gleams on hill and tree. Silence rests on 
the hillsides, and darkness, weird and solemn, broods about the 
mill. 

No sound is borne upon the sluggish breeze save the occa- 
sional note of a mourning whip-poor-will. 

No figure on the shore— no words of love or joy— adown the 
stream a broken lily floats. 

Something rises and falls upon the tide in yon dark shadows 
where the willows overhang the stream— and the water lies dark 
and deep. 

Something gleams white upon the water— a maiden's pallid 
faee, enframed in dusky hair. No smile of love and trust curves 
the wan, set lips. The drooping lines all speak of broken faith 
and vanished hope. 

The voices of the shoals arc singing together— and the song 
is a dirge of despair. 

Minnik Quinn. 



DAWNING. 79 



- ^£3^ - 



THE DAWNING CENTURY. 

Hushed in the century's slowly rising dawn, 

We breathe the airs of its transcendent day ; 

And hear, while melt the ancient shades away, 
The pageant of a vaster life move on. 
What heights shall be attained ere it be gone? 

What human vistas opened, who shall say? 

What generations at its evening gray 
Shall watch the veil of night across it drawn? 

Thy soul and mine, far out upon life's steep, 
Shall preen, ere then, for everlasting flight* 

Shall leave this frame on time's dull shore asleep, 
And rise on silver wings through crystal light; 

Or, pale with fear, shall lean above the deep, 
And plunge forever down the chasm of night. 

Henry Jerome Stockard. 



~^%7^ 



80 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



SHADOWS. 

"Drearily drift the shadows 
Over ray life again ; 
Heavily in my bosom 
Throbs the mighty pain. 

"Life is a weary journey, 
Time is so dark and cold ; 
Vainly I've grasped for sunbeams, 
Shadows are all I hold." 

The words of the song came floating to me on the evening 
breeze — words full of pathos, telling of a shadowed life, of a 
heart grown weary of the "vain grasping for sunbeams." The 
voice of the singer rose and fell in sad and tender cadences, and 
as the song ceased and melted into the silence of the night, I could 
fancy the singer sitting with bowed head and clasped hands, 
crushed by the sorrow that darkened her life. 

Oh, these shadowed lives ! The world is full of them. 

The poet Hood declares : 

"There's not a string attuned to mirth, 
But has its chord in melancholy." 

And another says : 

"Into the silent depths of every heart 
The eternal throws its awful shadow-form." 



SHADOWS. 83 

We instinctively shrink from sorrow, and therefore naturally 
commiserate those upon whom the shadows of sorrow rest. 

We think the life that is fullest of sunshine and freest from 
shadow the desirable life. 

But in looking over the history of the world, we find that 
sorrow has ever been an important factor in developing and per- 
fecting character, and that the germs of genius seldom develop to 
greatest perfection in sunshine only. 

In the perfect picture, the deepest shadows are as necessary 
as the highest lights. 

The world is indebted to shadowed lives for some of its best 
and most entrancing literature. Would that wonderful and in- 
imitable book, "Pilgrim's Progress," have been written, had not 
the shadows of Bedford jail fallen upon Bunyan ? Would Milton 
have sung so sublimely, had not darkness thrown her mantle 
'round him ? W T ould Edgar Allan Poe have delighted us with the 
strains of his weird, unearthly measures, had not "melancholy 
marked him for her own ?" 

Scores might be mentioned who have enriched the world by 
their genius or their goodness, after their dross had been burned 
away in the furnace of affliction. 

It may be glorious to stand on the mountain top, in full ef- 
fulgence of light, and bask in the brightness that dwells on the 
pinnacle, but the valley, with the shadows that rest upon it, also 
has its charms. 

And O, sweet singer, whose song awoke sympathy in my 

heart, take courage; it is only to-day that the shadow falls — 

to-morrow's sun will drive away the mists. Eternity's morning 

will fill each trusting heart with a glory of light, and the shadows 

will flee away. 

Louise Threete Hodges. 



81 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

TO LILL1E OF ATLANTA. 

The curtains of the night are never drawn 
In graceful folds across the face of day, 

But what ray memory puts its glad wings on, 
And bears sweet thoughts of you, so far away. 

And as I while away life's happy hours, 

Deep in my heart there is a wish that's true- 
That I was in Atlanta— 'mong the flowers, 
To hear the mocking bird that sings for you. 

When first I saw your soul-lit smiling eyes, 
And looked upon your face, so young, so fair, 

My heart's door opened to the tender ties 
Of friendship that shall live forever there. 

I do not love you, "Lil," as lovers love, 
With ardent words and tender looks beguiled ; 

No ! mine is friendship, pure as Heaven above — 
I love you as a father loves his child. 

Come, Friendship, then, and I'll give you a kiss, 
And you must take it to the sweetest mouth 

That ever said "Good-bye" to me; take this 
To Lillie, sweet girl of the Sunny South. 

If you should wander through this land of ours, 
In search of her, so beautiful and fair, 

And fail to find her in the home of flowers, 

Go to Atlanta, and you'll find her there. 

Will S. Hays. 
Louisville, Felt. 1, 1895. 



THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 85 



THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 

"All aboard for Bethesda Spring, Silurian, Arcadian, or down 
town !" 

"Ah, Missie, as I sit rocking and singing lullabies to my little 
one here, waiting for Fred through the midnight hours, that mo- 
notonous cry of the 'bus-men' comes to me in my reveries like a 
cold wave, causing my very blood to chill with remorse! But 
come, take this easy-chair, and I'll tell you all about it, for you 
are an old friend and I can trust you. Give me your hand. You 
know it was a way of mine when we were deskmates at 
school, to hold hands ; somehow I could study better. But my 
story. 

"After you left us, Neil McCoull,a brilliant, rich young lawyer 
came to board with us, and read law with father. Just at that 
time there seemed to be a lull in the affairs of the young people of 
the town. A new man in town spread like wildfire, and he at 
once became the observed of all observers, and gave material for 
talk for days after. All sought his acquaintance. Even those 
of our sex who had been put on the list of 'passee,' and had re- 
tired from the field, rallied from their places of retreat, armed 
themselves afresh with men-smiles and re-entered the struggle. 
The anxious mothers, too, brought up the rear, urging them on 
with — 'it ma}' be your last chance— make well of it — you will be 
forever laid on the shelf soon' — and like expressions equally as 
encouraging. 



86 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

"But Neil was equal to the emergency. He at once ensconced 
himself in a strong fort of indifference, and kept the new acquaint- 
ances under subjection by mild, but unrelenting reserve. He wasn 't 
slow to take in the situation. 

"I was a young and motherless girl, under the control of an 
old maid aunt, you know. 

"It would have been a great shock to her poor nerves had I re- 
ceived attention from the 'uppish young Americas' of thetown, as 
she termed them, as other girls of my age did. But ignorance 
was bliss with me. I had never known anything about such 
things, and cared less. I loved my books, was retiring and shy 
in my disposition. Neil, living in the house with me, soon be- 
came a constant companion. He was like an older brother to 
me. He helped me with my studies, and taught me to ride and 
drive. This over-attention of Neil's, to such an unpretentious 
creature as I was, quite disgusted the interested daughters and 
anxious mothers of the town. Time flew. I was a graduate 
with the highest honors. Neil delivered the commencement ad- 
dress and diplomas. I was proud of him, but he was more so of 
me. He had alwa}'s called me little sweetheart, and I had treated 
it as a little joke, but on this occasion he kissed me, surrounded by 
my laurels. Was ever kiss like that ! He read in my telltale eyes 
that which made his heart throb with joy. I afterwards posed 
for an artist who saw me on that night. The picture is labelled, 
'The Sweet Girl Graduate,' and received special mention at the 
Paris salon last year. 

"A year afterwards, father and I were at Waukesha for the 
summer. Several of our society belles were also there. Neil had 
joined us for a short time. One glorious evening, just as the fire- 
flies were trimming their lamps for the falling shadows, he sat 



THE BELLE OF TBE SEASON. 87 

with me at the base of Crescent spring and read to me 'The 
Buried Life,' by Matthew Arnold. It was his confession to me, 
and to my heart they were the most beautiful lines ever penned 
by a poet. As he finished reading, a voice in the pavilion above 
me said, and so distinctly that I could hear it, 'Who is this 
Miss Dortch of your town? She is beautiful and sings like a 
nightingale, but seems indifferent to society?' 

"I recognized the speaker to be Blanche Doyle, a New York 
woman who had spent much of her time abroad, and who had 
realized a round sum from playing roulette at Monte Carlo. She 
was a typical woman of fashion— magnificent figure, blondined 
hair, cosmetics in profusion, but rather coarse featured. Danc- 
ing came as natural to her feet as the latest scandal to her lips. 
To be stared at was the height of her ambition, and to be mobbed 
by the men, her acme of bliss; yet she possessed tact, most potent 
of social qualities. 

'"Oh, she is one of the goody-goody girls,' replied one of the 
belles from our town. 'The men call her sweet, but content them- 
selves with admiring her from a distance; there's nothing exciting 
in knowing her better. She gets in with all the old people, her 
slow ways suit them ; she wastes her smiles on the pauper, and is 
styled a superior woman. Dear me! These superior women — 
how stupid they are! For my part I prefer to ignore these stiff, 
conventional laws of propriety and have a good time.' 

"When they had gone Neil began to make comparisons in my 
favor. He said I was truthful, innocent and pure, and oh, his 
confidence in me only death could break. He said good-bye to me 
that night, but was happy, for I had promised to marry him on 
my return home in the autumn. 

7 



88 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

"He had gone, and two months more of the summer. How 
should I spend it? When that question entered my mind, the 
tempter entered my heart, slowly but surely. The conversation 
I had overheard still lingered with me. 'I believe I'll show these 
people what a stupid, indifferent girl can do when she takes a no- 
tion. There's nothing to be done but make myself excessively 
agreeable to people. I have nothing better to do, no harm can 
come from that, surely,' I thought. 

"A little later, I was sitting at the piano, singing. Blanche 
Doyle came up with her gushing compliments. Much to her 
amazement, I received them gracefully and kept up a quick rep- 
artee. From that time she sought my company on every occa- 
sion, much to my discomfort ; but, 'If lam to be a success, I 
must receive every one cordially. It would be unwise to incur 
such a woman's displeasure ; and then she will be leaving soon ; 
not enough horse racing and betting, consequently a limited num- 
ber of sports,' I argued. 

" 'Miss Dortch,' she said to me one day ; 'I am compelled to 
leave this place to-day. A gentleman friend of mine will be here 
for the ball to-night — ma}' I leave him in your care?' 

"I hesitated, a dozen thoughts rushing in confusion through 
my brain. 

" 'Who was he?' 'Birds of a feather,' etc. 'What would Neil 
think?' But I smothered my conscience into the conclusion, 'Per- 
haps I'll never see him again.' 

"At the ball that night, occasion ever memorable to me, I wore 
a simple costume of white silk and mulle, with diamond orna- 
ments. During the evening a bell boy handed me a card which 
read, "For Miss Eunice Dortch, introducing Mr. Fred Malone." 



THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. S9 

There was a fatality in that meeting. He was the handsomest 
man I ever saw, and proved, as you know, the most fascinating. 

"I led the german with him, was showered with favors, while 
the other girls of my town took a back seat, wondered and looked 
green with envy. As Fred Malone bade me good night on the 
dimly lighted stairway, he took my hand and kissed it. 

"I didn't reprove him, but felt the hot blood rush to my face. 
I entered my room, went straight to the mirror — a woman's way, 
you know — to see how my bangs had stood the whirl of the 
evening. A deep blush still mantled my cheek. I cast my eyes 
down. 'Eunice Dortch,' I said to myself, 'can this be you? The 
superior woman, as you are called, what has come over you? 
Shame! Shame!' 

"That night I spent in tossing, endeavoring to rock my con- 
science to sleep. 

"Fred Malone spent the entire summer at Waukesha and was 
all devotion, so much against my father's will that he took me 
away. Fred followed on the next train ; met me in Chicago — 
oh ! don't shrink from me, Missie, for I'm not wicked at heart. 
I married Fred Malone that very day ; yes, and will be true to 
him, fur he is my husband, though I am called the 'gambler's 
wife,' and the shame of it rests upon my life. 

"My father disinherited me, and poor Neil McCoull took brain 
fever and died soon after. Think of it, Missie! I've got to go 
to judgment with the death of that grand man on my soul. 

"0 God, have mercy ! 

"The diamonds which spoke so eloquently of wealth, as they 
glittered from mv ears and throat one year ago to-night, the 
night I met Fred Malone, now speak as eloquently from the 
pawnbroker's shop, of poverty present. But I've learned the 



90 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

great lesson of charity, for when I see pure, innocent girls, su- 
perior girls, tampering with the -world and sacrificing their wom- 
anliness at its shrine of applause and attention, I pity, rather 
than condemn them. They remind me of the poor sorceress who 
entwines the serpent about her throat, confident of her power 
of control, but alas ! In the moment when she leasts expects it, 
it sticks its deadly fangs into her vitals! Ah, yes, Missie, I was 
the belle of the season that year, a short season of two months, 
but it has cost me my life's happi — hu — s — h, there's Fred — O 
God, and drunk again!" 

Ella May Powell. 




DOLOROSA, 



!»l 



DOLOROSA. 



'Oh ! I know tin's truth, if I know no other, 
That Passionate Love is Pain's own mother." 




T 



( HE beach at San Ro- 
naldo was beautiful in 
the moonlight. Each wave 
reflected a moonbeam; the 
water broke upon the 
smooth, white shore in a 
thousand jeweled drops ; 
myriads of stars twinkled 
in the cloudless dome above, 
and again in the glassy 
surface of the bay. The 
summer breeze, fragrant 
with the breath of many 
flowers, bore upon it the 
tinkling strains of a man- 
dolin and the soft resonance of a tenor voice singing a 
Spanish love song. The singer stood below a small cottage 
window, not many yards from the water's brink. The blind was 
soon opened softly ; a scarlet blossom was dropped out, and a 
woman's face was seen for a moment only. The singer picked 
up the flower, murmuring "Gracias, sefiorita," and then strolled 
jauntily away, strumming a light ditty on his instrument. 



92 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

He was a handsome fellow, this sweet-voiced serenader — tall, 
fair-haired, blue-eyed, of graceful address and languid bearing. 
Edgar Allenby had come to California to regain the health he 
had so greatly impaired by overwork at his beloved profession. 
He was an artist. By nature happy, careless and gay, with just 
a soupcon of that devil-may-care recklessness which so attracts 
a woman, he had always been a favorite with the fair sex, and 
was considered a thoroughly good fellow by his comrades and 
confreres in art. He had seen a good deal of the world and had 
managed to extract considerable pleasure from it. Family ties 
did not bind him, as he had long ago strayed away from the 
parental roof and begun to live in his own happy-go-lucky way. 
Abundance of means had enabled him to rove whither he would. 
He did not look on life seriously ; the troubles of others did not 
interest or bother him — he never listened to them — and as yet he 
had had none of his own. Coming West, from Los Angeles he 
had journeyed to Pasadena, San Diego and other resorts that 
pleased his fancy, always in search of the artistic and pictur- 
esque; but a few days after his arrival at San Ronaldo he had 
chanced upon the prettiest picture he had ever beheld. It was 
twilight on the bay ; the breeze scarcely stirred the placid water ; 
a fresh young voice chanting "Ave, Maria" reached his ears; the 
plash of oars announced the approach of a boat. The solitary 
occupant of the tiny craft was a girl of about eighteen years, 
whose face and coloring betokened her Spanish blood. Her eyes 
were large, brown and lustrous; her black hair lay heavily on 
her temples and was parted in the center like a Madonna's ; her 
figure was lithe and graceful, and simply clad in a dark blue 
gown with a crimson scarf knotted about her waist. A flower 
of the same hue gleamed at her throat and in her dusky hair. 



DOLOROSA. 93 

As she ceased rowing and fastened her boat at its accustomed 
place, she saw the stranger, and a blush rose to her brown cheeks. 
He removed his hat, and as she passed him, murmured "Buenos 
noces, sehorita." He scarcely heard the "Buenos noces, senor' 
which came from her lips. He followed her — first with his eyes 
and then at a discreet distance until he satisfied himself where 
she lived. The next day he walked in the same direction, but 
caught no glimpse of her. Then by judicious inquiry he discov- 
ered her identity and learned her short, sad history. Her father 
had been drowned in that little bay before her mother's eyes, 
who stood on the shore, powerless to aid her husband. This 
was several months before Dolorosa's birth, and the mother's 
sorrow was transmitted to the daughter. The baby eyes were 
mournful, and the melancholy name which her mother gave the 
sad-faced child seemed well chosen. When little Dolorosa was 
just learning to w^alk and lisp her baby prayers, her mother died 
— of a broken heart they all said. Her only regret was at leaving 
her baby. "Don't cry, Mama ; Dolorosa come to you soon," the 
child had whispered in her mother's ear. Since that time she had 
lived with her godfather in the little cottage which they owned, 
and they maintained an existence by fishing, weaving nets, and 
selling flowers, coral and treasures of the sea as souvenirs to the 
visitors at San Ronaldo. 

With an artist's quick perception for all that is beautiful, 
Edgar Allenby was strangely attracted by his single glimpse of 
Dolorosa, and three nights after that occasion he played under 
her window. The girl was fascinated by the sweet music and 
could not resist opening the shutter. After he had gone she 
could not rest. Something — a vague, indescribable feeling, never 
experienced before, seemed struggling in her breast. She looked 



94 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

out upon the clear water and let the soft, cool breeze fan her hot 
cheeks, and finally sank into a sleep that was heavy and unre- 
freshing. As for Edgar Allenby, he laughed to himself as he 
walked away and roused: "This certainly is anew departure; 
serenading a senorita, singing Spanish love songs in very rusty 
Spanish under a damosel's window. What a romantic person- 
age I am getting to be!" He lounged on the hotel piazza for an 
hour or two, delighting his artist soul in the moonlit scene, and 
sending up little white rings of smoke from a soothing cigar. 
Then he went in to dream of soft brown eyes, scarlet blossoms 
and tinkling mandolins. 

The next morning he was on the beach bright and early, and 
found Dolorosa sorting pearly shells and making quaint orna- 
ments from them. He approached her with that easy grace she 
found so hard to resist. 

"The senorita is an early riser." 

She raised her eyes to his. Her face was childlike in its 
simplicity. 

"I love the beach in the early morning," she said. "The air 
is so fresh and pure. Besides, I have much to do to-day." 

"Can I not help you?" he asked. 

"The senor is very kind," she replied, "but he could not do this 
work," deftly arranging a coral necklace. "And I must shortly 
take these things over to Rosita." 

"May I ask who is Rosita?" queried Allenby, with charming 
deference. 

"She keeps a little shop over there," pointing across the bay, 
and buys of me what I can prepare from these shells, and the 
flowers we raise." 

"Mav I not row you over?" 



DOLOROSA. 95 

"I do not wish to trouble — " 

"It is a pleasure, I assure you." 

He helped her place the pretty trifles in the boat, and carried 
the large basket of fragrant flowers, on whose many-hued petals 
the dew still sparkled. Then, helping her into the boat, he pulled 
off, rowing skillfully, and feathering the oars in a style that be- 
tokened practice. 

"The senor rows well." 

"Not so well as you. I have watched you often. He leaned 
forward, smiling. She blushed, and removed her large hat, brush- 
ing back the heavy, wavy locks. Her sweet, red lips were parted ; 
her dreamy face was slightly flushed by the sun, and her lithe 
figure was perfectly outlined, as she sat in the stern of the boat. 

"What a picture you make!" he said, impulsively. "Would 
you let me paint you, just as you are?" 

She started. "What would the senor do with a picture of 
me?" 

"Exhibit it," he said, promptly. It would make a great sen- 
sation. And then he told her of his work, and how her portrait 
would be hung in the great Acadeni}-, be seen and admired by 
thousands, and make them both rich and famous. After much 
persuasion, she consented. 

"I don't care for myself," she murmured, "but since you wish 
it — ." He answered and thanked her with a close pressure of the 
hand. It seemed then as though fire were coursing through her 
veins. Her hand was abruptly withdrawn, and she began hastily 
to gather up the shells, for the boat was about to touch. 

Old Rosita saw a new look in her eyes and observed Allenby 
askance, preserving, however, a discreet silence. 



96 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

On the way home, Dolorosa rowed, plying the oars with 
vigor and grace. Edgar leaned back in the boat, regarding her 
with admiration, and talking freely of his life and ambitions, 
tactfully drawing from her many expressions and ideas that 
would have surprised old Alfio,her godfather, had he heard them, 
for she was generally quiet and reserved. To Edgar Allen by, 
however, she showed, by her impulsive eagerness at meeting a 
congenial spirit, the utter simplicity and innocence of her nature. 
Before they parted, arrangements had been made for a sitting the 
next morning at the cottage, and as he kissed her hand in fare- 
well, she said, "You need not stop under the window, this time, 
senor." 

The days that followed were full ol happiness. In a short 
time, the picture took on shape and color. It was simply a bust 
portrait, the slightly bare shoulders draped with dull red, and a 
crimson flower in the hair. Dolorosa was very beautiful then. 
The love that had sprung up in her heart lessened the customary 
mourn fulness of her face, and her whole soul shone from her glo- 
rious e3^es in purity and love. Allenby was thoroughly wrapped 
up in his work. His health was entirely regained. His artistic 
nature delighted in the beauty of his subject; he looked ahead, 
and surmised the fame the picture would bring him, and threw 
much fervor and feeling into it. All the while, he was utterly un- 
conscious of the feeling he had aroused in Dolorosa's heart, until 
one day, when the portrait was nearly finished, he happened to 
glance up, and found hergazing at him so intently, so longingW, 
that it came over him like a flash, for her love was plainly spoken 
with her eyes. He dropped his brush and sprang to her side, hold- 
ing her close. 



DOLOROSA. 07 

"Darling, do you love me?" 

She could only cling to him. "Edgardo mio." Hekissedher. 



Threemonths had passed. The glorious summer had mellowed 
into fall. Edgar and Dolorosa had lived in another world. 
World?— it had seemed more like Heaven! The very sky had 
seemed bluer, the sun brighter, the day more fair, and the night 
more perfect because of their love. Everything was beautiful, 
and had been made only for them. But now, as autumn ap- 
proached, Allenby began once more to think of work, and to long 
for the old studio life, and his jolly Bohemian comrades; he real- 
ized the folly of the summer madness that had seized him, and 
with the cooler weather, his ardent passion grew less, and he be- 
came weary of the abundance of Dolorosa 's love. Her devotion 
never abated. Morning, noon and night, her great love welled 
up in her heart, and quite overcame her. Never having known 
that constant parental affection that is a part of most children's 
lives, the whole capacity of her nature was focused on her love 
for Edgar. It was a blind, passionate, unquestioning, uncalcu- 
lating and intense love, the mere knowledge of which gave her 

exquisite joy. 

Allenby, on the other hand, had loved Dolorosa in his own 
way-a careless, thoughtless, but passionate way. The element 
of heroic devotion and self-sacrifice did not enter his affection, 
and his nervous nature already craved a change. 

Lately, there had come to his hotel an Eastern lady and her 
daughter, for the latter's health. Ethel Sterling was a slender, 
delicate blonde, of a gentle, affectionate nature, but without 
much strength of character; her mother's wish was law to her, 



98 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

in spite of her own inclinations. In Edgar Allenby, Mrs. Sterling 
saw an eligible son-in-law. His reputation as an artist and bon- 
homie, his plentiful income she knew, and therefore bade Ethel 
exert her charms in that direction. Poor Ethel was too weak and 
disinterested to care for admiration, or make herself even agree- 
able, but being a dutiful child, she did her best, and soon Edgar 
was quite attentive. Mrs. Sterling was eminently pleased with 
the result of her plans, and Ethel, before she knew it, was deeply 
attached to the man she had endeavored to please for her mother's 
sake. 

In the meantime, the intervals between Edgar's visits to Do- 
lorosa became longer, his tenderness forced, his caresses noncha- 
lant. The agony of this revelation came to Dolorosa one Septem- 
ber night, when she was singing his hitherto favorite air to the 
guitar, with the lovelight shining in her eyes. 

"Carissimo, I have missed you. Can it be that you tire of 
your own Dolorosa?" she said, in jest, expecting the usual decla- 
ration. 

"Of course not, sweetheart. What a question !" he answered, 
impatiently. 

"But, Edgardo, you stay away so long, and I am lonely," 
twining her soft arms about his neck. 

He disengaged her. "Don't; it's so hot." He drew out his 
handkerchief, and as he did so, a tiny square of delicate cambric 
fluttered to the floor. It was Ethel's, which he had begged from 
her but an hour ago. Dolorosa 's quick e3 r e detected it. The first 
pang of jealousy shot through her heart. 

"I — I just found that,", he said, hastily, stooping to pick it 
up. But Dolorosa had it in her hand. 



DOLOROSA. 99 

"It is very pretty," she said. "Ethel," reading the name in 
the corner. 

"Oh! it must be Miss Sterling's," said Edgar, regaining his 
composure. 

"Who is she?" 

"A young lady staying at our hotel." 

"Do you know her?" 

"Slightly." 

"Is she pretty?" 

"A little. Now, Dolorosa, don't be jealous. It's bad form," 
laughing uneasily; "besides, you haven't the least cause. You 
know I love you, but — " 

"Ah! darling, forgive me!" she broke in, impulsively. "But 
I cannot endure the thought that you even look at another. I 
love you so deeply. I do not think you even yet realize how 
much. I almost wish that you were ill, that I might nurse you ; 
poor, that I might work for you ; in peril or danger, that I might 
fight for you, or save you with my own life. I see no one but 
you, think of none other; your voice is ever in my ears, your face 
always before my eyes. I know that you have many other things 
to think about— I have only you. My whole life is wrapped up 
in you, and my heart and soul yours forever. I could not live 
without you. You will always love me, darling; you will never, 
never leave me?" 

Her passionate outburst ended in a sob, and kneeling by his 
chair, she clasped him fervently. 

"Of course not, Dolorosa. What is the use of making such a 
commotion?" 

With an impatient gesture, he rose and stepped to the win- 
dow. She stood mute and motionless. 



100 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

"And now I must go. It's rather late. You'd better go to 
bed. You look tired," he added, noticing her pale, drawn face. 
He kissed her in a perfunctory sort of way, and left the room. 

Dolorosa could not move. She seemed stunned. She felt as 
though she had heard her own death warrant. It was not so 
much the words he uttered, but his manner, which so wounded 
her sensitive spirit. She saw then the causes of his frequent ab- 
sences, and his careless caresses. The awful truth came over her, 
and it seemed as though the shame of it would crush her. He 
was tired of her ! He had grown weary of the devotion she had 
given so lavishly. Her quick imagination foresaw the result, and 
she remembered her baby words to her dying mother. The room 
seemed close. She could hardly breathe. Rushing out into the 
air, she sought the glistening shore, and cast herself upon the 
cool sand, in the shadow of a large rock. Presently, the sound 
of voices came from the other side of the bowlder. 

A woman's voice was saying: " Are you sure you are in 
earnest? I cannot quite think you are. Forgive me, bu we 
must be honest with each other. Do you really love me?" 

"How can you doubt me?" came the reply; "have I not as- 
sured you, again and again ? And I know your mother would 
approve the match. My people, too, are anxious for me to 'settle 
down,' as they call it. Ah ! Ethel, don't distrust me, but say you 
will be my wife." 

The voice was Edgar Allenby's, and those words were heard 
with terrible distinctness by the Spanish girl crouching in the 
shadow. In a few moments, the two figures rose, and slowly 
walked toward the hotel. Dolorosa lay quite still until they had 
gone. In those few moments, she had lived over her entire life 
She saw how empty her existence had been until a few short 



DOLOROSA. 101 

months ago, and then howrapturous her brief joy had been. She 
saw how black the future would be — no peace, no hope, no love — 
all bitterness, dishonor and despair. The thought stifled her. "I 
could not endure it," she moaned. The shame overwhelmed her. 
The blood left her heart. Her limbs grew numb, and her lips 
murmured faintly, "My lost love, my Edgardo." She looked up. 
The stars smiled kindly at her ; the sky was beautifully bright ; 
white clouds seemed to beckon, and the cool, soft waves invited 
her; the earth was black; the heavens bathed in golden light. 
"Miserere," she whispered. 
Then all was silence. 

* X- * -X- * tt * # # -X- * # * 

The third morning after his betrothal night, Edgar Allenby 
arose, and his conscience having troubled him with unquiet 
dreams of the girl who had appealed to him so passionately but 
unavailingly, he made his way toward the tiny cottage. As he 
hastened along the shining beach, upon which the morning tide 
was breaking, he pondered as to the best method of informing 
Dolorosa of his near departure, and the necessity of severing the 
tie between them. 

"I hope she won't make a fuss," hethought. "I'll try and fix 
it up amicably. "Hello, Ethel!" as he encountered his fiancee, 
flushing prettily, in the crisp morning air. 

"I'm just returning from my constitutional," shesaid. "How 
lovely everything is at this hour! The world seems so fresh, and 
beautiful and clean. It inspires one to think and act nobly. I 
have made so many good resolutions this morning. I'm going to 
be a model wife. How can one do or think evil with such heav- 
enly surroundings? Don't you feel better morally, as well as 



102 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

physically, for being here, dearest ?" She slipped her hand in his, 
tenderly. 

Before he could reply, a mightier wave than the rest rushed 
on the beach, and, rolling on the sands, broke into glistening gems 
at their feet. As the spray died away, a dark object was seen 
near the shore, apparently washed in by the tide. They hastened 
to it. Ethel sank on her knees, her fair hair blown about her face, 
and in her white dress, looking the personification of purity, 
gazed for the first time into a face that was beautiful, even in 

death— the dark, passionate face of Dolorosa. 

************* 

In a large Eastern city, there dwells an artist whose work has 
made him famous. Although much sought after, he seems to 
shun, rather than seek society. People say that it is the modesty 
of genius which causes him to seclude himself; his friends silently 
wonder at the change that has come over him, and conclude that 
it is the sobering influence of matrimony . His devoted wife knows 
that she does not share his confidence to the utmost, but her 
heart finds solace in the care and love of her children. 

And he? In a secret cabinet of his studio is a portrait, which 
but one other beside himself has ever beheld. He dares not look 
at it now, but it seems sometimes as though the dark, mournful 
eyes will burn through the securely locked door. They penetrate 
his inmost soul; they follow him everywhere. His fair-haired 
wife's gentle affection cannot overcome them ; his children's sweet 
caresses cannot cause him to forget, nor the homage of the world 
obliterate the memory of the past. In the midst of his daily life, 
the very honors heaped on him chafe, rather than gratify. His 
fame brings little comfort to his heart. He looks shudderingly 
into his heart, and imagines it branded with the mark of Cain. 



DOLOROSA. 



103 



At times, thoughts of wife, children, renown, and all else, fade 
away, and he is once more on the beach at San Ronaldo, in the 
morning sunlight, while before him lies the body of her who lived 
for him alone, loved but him, and died for him — the passionate, 
faithful Spanish child of Fate — Dolorosa ! 

Beatrice Sturges. 




104 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



_^|W^ 



A LITTLE BOY. 

A little boy I know, so bright of face, 

So dimpled-sweet, so bubbling o'er with mirth, 

He seems a brooklet gushing from the earth, 

And gurgling softly now o'er pebbly place, 

And bounding now o'er tiny precipice. 

Please God, may he yet be some noble firth, 

And wash to shore the pearls of goodliest worth 

That undiscovered lie at ocean's base, — 

Some strong arm of the sea, where argosies 

Of lofty purposes may safely steer 

Their freight to God's eternal ocean-pier. 

Bound on, brave little brook ! so blithe, so merry — 

Gain strength for burdens here, and beyond the skies 

Be of the River of Life a tributary. 

Orelia Key Bell. 



"^sIP*" 




A LITTLi: BOY. 



AUNT ANGELINAS TRIUMPH. 107 



AUNT ANGELINE'S TRIUMPH. 

[By permission of the Arena Publishing Company, of Boston.] 

Sister Long's opinion of old Aunt Angeline and her shrewd- 
ness will give you a more just and accurate picture of her than 
pen of mine can paint : — 

"She wan' a town nigger nohow," Sister Long was wont to 
say of her, "but wuz fotched f urn ole Virginny somewhars befo' 
de war en sold. I hab heeard sey she uz sold 'count o' stealin'. 
She tuk a whole hog, dey useter to say, en she skunt it, stickler 
scaldin' ov it— skunt it wid her own han's. She uz a toler'ble ole 
'oman when she moved ter town, en done been free fur years. Her 
en me wuz neighbors oncet, en I reckin I knowed her toler'ble well. 
En dey ain' no denyin' ob de fac' dat Sist' Sims hed tuk some, 
some time. Ez fur tricks — ef dey wuz a trick dat nigger 'oman 
wuzn't up ter hit's des beca'se she ain' nebber heeard tell on it. 
But it wuz dat last trick o' her'n dat tuk de premyum. Dey useter 
sey dey wan' no hole too little fur Sist' Angeline Sims ter work 
out ob; but she sho' mighty nigh got inter one too tight fur her 
dat time. Some laid it all ter de do' ob Brudder Luther Ellis fur 
makin' ob de motion ter tek her inter de chu'ch." 

And there is not the least doubt in the world that the bring- 
ing of the old sinner into the church was in truth owing to 
Brother Luther's smartness in shouldering her cause. But, to do 
him justice, he did in some measure seek to prevent the bringing 
of reproach upon his act by always keeping his off eye upon Sis- 



108 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

ter Sims and her goings-on. Perhaps he had been hasty in speak- 
ing up for her as he did. Her spiritual reputation was not up to 
the Methodist mark of excellence; while her moral name was, to 
say the least of it, odorous. 

Yet, in spite of all that might be said, there was that about 
Sister Sims which inspired friendship for the lonely old soul ; hers 
was one of those natures which would bind another's bruises, 
anoint his sores, give her last crumb to feed his hunger, — and, 
while ministering to his needs, rob him of his pocket handkerchief, 
or steal the shoes from off his feet. So perhaps Brother Luther 
wasn't so mightily to blame after all. She had stood so terribly 
alone that night when asking admission into the church. Even 
Brother Bolin, the preacher in charge, seemed ready to cast a 
stone at her. The pathos of it appealed to Brother Luther. 
Moreover, Brother Luther was a pillar of the church ; he could 
afford to stoop to the help of the spiritually hungry. His heart 
went out to the penitent when Brother Bolin called upon her for 
the "experience" by which it was customary to weigh a candi- 
date's claims to church privileges. She rose, a smile such as the 
devout are accustomed to wear, giving a sort of extra shine to 
her glossy old face. 

"Brudders," she began, "en sisters, I got religion, en I went 
off inter a tranch ; en I see Marse Gabul come down out'n de 
heabens wid 'is ho'n; en he blowed, en he blowed, en he blovved, 
tell I know in my soul he 'uz dest a-blowin' fur me. So I riz up, 
en sez I, 'I's raidy, bress de Lord !' " 

She took her seat amid breathless silence. Back in the country, 
in the backwoods where she had spent the greater part of her 
life, such an experience might have passed — might have aroused 
some enthusiasm, indeed. But this was a town church, a congre- 



AUNT ANGELINAS TRIUMPH. 109 

gation of town people. She need not for one moment suppose 
they would be put upon by any such old-fashioned, unlikely rot 
as that. She had scarcely taken her seat before Brother Bolin 
rose. 

"Sisf Sims," said he, "I regret to say dat de 'sperience jes' 
related am not broad enough ter remit you inter de communion 
ob de chu'ch. We ull be obleeged ter pass you by twell dere am 
some mo' clarifyin' proof dat you hab had de witness obdeSperit 
dat you am de cmT of God." 

A giggle followed the preacher's words; perhaps it was the 
laugh that influenced old Luther. At all events he rose, and— 

"Brudder Bolin," said he, "I feel moved ter sey dat you am 
toosebereinyo' jedgmint ob dis sister. You don' know, brudder, 
'bout dat ho'n ; you don' know but she might hab heeard a toot 
or two. I moves dat we remit her inter de church." 

Upon the strength of this speech she was taken in; the pos- 
sible "toot or two" was admitted; but old Luther always felt 
that the burden of her lay heavy upon his soul. 

Jordan is a hard road to travel. The church had taken old 
Angeline in on trust, so to speak. She was "mighty churchful," 
they said of her ; a great shouter— nobody in the church could 
out-shout Sister Angeline Sims. She could sing, too ; she always 
sang when the collection was being taken. She had a way of 
dropping her head back, closing her eyes and rocking to and fro, 
and singing until the contribution hat had passed by. 

One night when there was an important collection to be 
raised, the minister expressly requested that there be no hymn 
until after the hat had been passed. And said he with meaning 
emphasis, — 



110 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

"Brudderin, I hopes fur de glory ob'de Lord dat none ob you 
will go off ter sleep endurin' ob dis collection fur de pore ob de 
church." 

About that time Sister Sims began to sing: — 

"Swing low, sweet charryot, 

Comin' fur ter cyarry me home: — 
Swing low " 

Brother Bolin raised his hand : — 

"De congregation," said he, "will please ter not ter sing, but 
jest ter keep dey eyes op'n." 

There was sudden silence, broken only by the sound of broad, 
flat soles moving down the carpetless aisles where the stewards 
were "passing the hat" between the rows of well-filled pews. 

Aunt Angeline saw them coming. Not to put a dime into 
that hat meant everlasting death to her own self-respect, to say 
nothing of the eyes fixed upon her. She began to fumble in her 
pocket : it hadn't felt the weight of a coin in six months. Nearer 
came the hat; more energetic became the search in the seemingly 
bottomless pocket. It seemed to her that every eye in the house 
was fixed upon her; she must put something into that hat. She 
thought once of wadding a bit of paper and dropping that in. 
But the great white eyes of old Luther Ellis were watching. 
Moreover, the brother with the hat would be sure to detect the 
cheat. She wondered if she might not be able to give a little 
sleight of hand performance that would dazzle the eye of the be- 
holder into the idea that she had dropped in her mite. As the 
hat came nearer she detected that in the eye of old Luther which 
said, "No fooling with the Lord's money, if you please." 

But old Aunt Angeline was a woman of resources. She had 
been through slavery "before the war," and according to her 



AUNT ANGELINAS TMUMPV. \\\ 

own statement had "been through sights since." She caught the 
look in Brother Luther's eyes ; her own flashed back the chal- 
lenge, "Ketch dis ole nigger nappin' if you kin." At the same 
moment the hand in the pocket of her dress came to a sudden 
satisfactory stop. A smile of genuine relief broadened the big, 
thick lips. The hand was withdrawn from the pocket and now 
lay, half -closed, upon her lap. The look she gave old Luther 
said, "Done foun' it, btudder; done foun' de money fur de pore." 
She saw that he understood, and so settled herself back content- 
edly in the pew and gave herself to the business of dodging that 
hat and at the same time maintaining a degree of respectability 
becoming a member in good standing. 

It was at that moment that her eye chanced to fall upon the 
lap of the sister at her side. The woman was Sister Long, and 
she was industriously twisting with a much-beholed handker- 
chief the nose of the little boy on her left. Sister Sims occupied 
the end of the bench upon the woman's immediate right. The 
benches were tall and narrow and set close together ; the lap of 
the sister upon Angeline's left was well screened from the eyes of 
the congregation, and upon it lay a bright, glistening, new silver 
dime. It had evidently slipped from the handkerchief, one corner 
of which, crumpled and twisted, showed where the precious mite 
had been tied for safe keeping. Old Angeline, the saint, lifted 
her knee just a trifle, a shield for the one exposed point of view, 
gave her head a twirl, lifted her skirts, dropped them— and the 
sleight of hand act had been performed. 

When the hat passed the bit of silver went tinkling down to 
join its kindred missionaries; and old Angeline through half- 
closed e3^es, saw her "sister in the church" begin the same wild 
search she herself had but just been engaged upon. "Hit's all de 



112 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

same," she consoled her rusty old conscience; "hit wuz boun' 
right whar it wint— de only differ'nce bein' hit wint by de way 
ob ole Angeline stid o' tudder one." 

But let him that standeth take heed ; sin always leaves an 
unguarded outpost. In extracting the coin Mis' Sims had reck- 
oned without the small boy whose nose was being wrenched. As 
his mother began to shake her skirts and peer beneath the 
benches he lifted a short, stubby finger and pointed it with 
deadly accusing straight at the thief : — 

"Her tuked it," he said ; but fortunately for old Angeline 
nobody heard. "Her tuked it," repeated the accuser in a louder 
key. "Ma? Aw, ma? Ma, I say? Her tuked it; I seed her 'en' 
her tuked it." 

Before he could say another word old Angeline had drowned 

him out: — 

"I'm sometimes up an' I'm sometimes down — 
Comin' fur ter cyarry me home; 
I'm bent on heaben en a goldin crown— 
Cotnin' fur ter cyarry me home. 

"Swing low, sweet charryot, 

Comin' fur ter cyarry me home;— 
Swing low, sweet charryot, 
Comin' fur ter cyarry me home." 

And through her half-closed lids she saw the hat pass safely on 
and drew a long, deep breath of righteous satisfaction. 

But the matter did not end here; the boy made himself under- 
stood at last find the next morning Mis' Sims had a call. It was 
altogether a war of words that was fought "over the fence" in 
front ot old Angeline's cabin, but the words were quite forceful 



AUNT ANGELINAS TRIUMPH. 113 

enough in all conscience to have substituted both clubs and shot- 
guns. 

"Yo' nasty ole thief," cried the -visitor "I'm good min' ter 
come in dar en bus' yo' haid open wid a rock. Dat's what I is. 
Foolin' long dar all dat time wid the pockets ob yo' coat tail 
'ten'in' lack dey's some money dar what yo' can't fin' ; den when 
dey ain' nobody lookin' sneakin' de dime off'n somebody else's 
lap. Dat's de kin' o' Chrischun you is. You'd steal de money 
off'n de eyes ob de daid: you sho' would; dat's de kin' ob 
Chrischun you is. I'm good min' go ter de magistrate en hab 
him fotch you up in cote, dat's what I'm good min' ter do." 

Aunt Angeline stood in her cabin door, her hand upon the 
key. She had breakfast to get in another part of the town. She 
had no time to waste upon "low flung niggers what furgits ter 
fotch deir manners long wid 'em." She was not afraid of the 
magistrate ; they were acquaintances of long standing, he and 
she. She regarded her irate visitor in silence for a moment, then 
slowly lifted her smooth, fat, black arm, and "Cla'r out!" she 
commanded. She was as black as the oft-quoted ace of spades, 
and as glossy as a freshly peeled onion. Her face was shrewd, 
sharp and jolly— not a trace of ill humor about it. Even when 
she issued the stern command to "cla'r out," her long brass ear- 
rings dangled about her white headkerchief and her little, round, 
fat jaws in a way that was altogether too jolly to suggest any- 
thing on top of this earth more formidable than a monkey or a 
Christmas breakdown with 'possum and cider between whiles. 

"Cla'r out? Who dat gwine cla'r out, I lack ter know," de- 
clared the visitor. "You nasty old witch ; you black wench, et 
ain't got no mo' business in de chu'ch den a horse thief am ; you 
tell me ter cla'r out? Fo' God if I don' bus' yo' black mouf fur 



114 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

ye. Come out o' dar, yur nigger wench, en tell me to 'cla'r out,' 
ef you dar'. Tell me out here in de street, wid plenty o' rocks en 
sticks handy. You nasty thief! tell a decent 'oman ter_cla'r out. 
Cla'r out ! I wouldn't set my foot inside yo' gate, you ole rogue, 
not eft you wuz ter gimme all de money in dis town; hit's de 
God's troof . Cla'r out ! Yo' better wait tellsome decent 'oman 
cla'rs in fo' you invites ob 'em to cla'r out; dat you ^had. God 
knows I ain't gwine put my foot in yo' nasty den ob thieves. I's 
gwine up ter Brudder Bolin's house en fetch my boy Joe long 
ter tell him 'bout'n you stealin' my money off my knee, an' git 
him ter hab you up in de meet'n', dat's what I's gwine do. You 
ole sneak-thief -nigger-wench you." 

Now Aunt Angeline was not a coward, neither was she quar- 
relsome. If she was possessed of the weakness of Achan, shewas 
not without a touch of the chief virtue of the man of Uz as well. 
And she was proud, she was that nigh of kin to Lucifer. Verily 
she hadj-oyal examples to offer in apology. She was proud of 
her position in the church. It was a small matter to face a mag- 
istrate, a constable, or even, as she had once been called upon to 
do, to come before a jury. It wasn't any great disgrace to 
spend a day or two in jail. But to be "brought up in meet'n !" 
That was the sin unpardonable, the stain past the power of the 
sweets of Araby. Any other threat would have passed over her 
head like drops of rain upon a duck's back. But this one— she 
hesitated, scowled, gave her brass earrings a toss, and— shot up 
a white flag. This called for capitulation. In an instant the 
shrewd old sinner had laid her plans and set her trap. She re- 
moved the key from the door and stepped majesticallv down to 
the gate. 



AUNT ANGELINAS TRIUMPH. 115 

"Sisf Long," she said, "I am' got no time ter stan' here 
quallin', wid de whi' folks waitin' en hungry fur dey's bre'kfus'. 
You jes' come up here ter-night en tek a bite o' late supper wid 
me, en we ull talk 'bout dat mistake o' dat nice little boy o' yo'n 
whilst we's eatin' a tender young pullet what I's ^been a-savin' 
fur some fine comf'ny. I dunno but I might scrouge roun' a bit 
en fin' a moufful o' fruit cake en a litte taste o' wine to he'p it 
down. You jes' be here 'bout nine erclock. En fetch yo' oleman 
long wid yer. Dey's plenty ob de cake en chick'n fixin' fur de hull 
o' we-alls." 

The invitation was tempting; what was one poor little dime 
as compared with a supper of young pullet and fruitcake? — fruit 
cake saved from last Christmas, too, without a doubt. And 
after all, the poor got the dime just as surely as though her hand 
instead of Sister Sims' had dropped it into the hat. It had been 
a long time since she had sat down to a dinner of chicken and 
cake; while as to wine — well, she had a drop at sacrament; that 
was all. The scent of it filled her nostrils; she belonged to the 
Methodists and knew the Influence of chicken upon the Metho- 
dist heart. She felt her anger bubbling off in a hiss of sputtering 
yellow gravy in which was swimming a nicely toasted fowl 
stuffed with the fattest of "patty bread." Mis' Sims was cook 
for her old master's oldest son ; he was rich, and bought the best 
of everything. Every darky in that alley knew the feel of Squire 
Goodloe's chickens. 

It was quite too much for the tottering resistance of Sister 
Long. She smoothed the wrinkles of her wmite apron and ad- 
justed her bonnet anew. 

"Sisf Sims," she said in her best church voice, "I'll come, 
yessum;an' we'll talk oberdis matter quiet, all ter ourse'ves. A.n' 



116 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

ef you tells me dat boy o' mine hab lied ter me 'bout'n dat insig- 
ni'cant ten-cent piece, I'll take de hide plumb off'n his back, I 
sholy will. I won't leave ha'r nor hide ter him. En I'll take yo' 
word fur it, Sist' Sims; 1 ain' gwine let no bad chiP o' min' put 
his word ag'inst de word ob a sister in de chu'ch, I sholy ain't. 
You kin jes' tek my word fer dat, Sist' Sims." 

And as old Angeline hobbled off to get the breakfast for the 
squire's family, her face wore a mingled expression of victory 
and of defeat. The dime was settled ; she had put down a church 
trial. It would never do for them to drag her into a church trial ; 
there were too many things that might come up. She must keep 
out of church fusses, she told herself, "else dey might be a 
scan'le." 

But that supper— she would "haf ter hab a little flour," "a 
spoonful o' lard," "a spat o' bac'n," "a pinch o' sugar," "a 
moufful o' coffee," "a little piece o' butter, no bigger'n a hen 
aig," "a bottle o' wine out'n de cellar, en — de chickin." The fruit 
cake had been in a box on the mantel, with Aunt Angeline's Sun- 
day shoes on the box, for more than a month. It would have to 
be eaten now. "An' all fur a measley little dime," said Angeline. 

When she went in the squire's gate, her plans were all laid. In 
the coop, there was a great bronze gobbler, bought and put to 
fatten against the master's birthday, which would be in a week. 
As Aunt Angeline passed the coop, the big, fat beauty rammed 
his head between the bars, and called out with fatal impudence, 
"Oodle? Oodle? Owdle?" Angeline stopped; a pullet was small 
for three people— for six, indeed, since she had suddenly remem- 
bered that old Luther and his wife might as well be cultivated 
as not. Then there was another man she had in her mind. Old 
Angeline usually had some man or another in her mind. In a 



AUNT ANGELINAS TRIUMPH. 117 

moment, she was in the pantry with her mistress, who had slipped 
out in wrapper, and with bare feet, to give out the breakfast. 

When Aunt Angeline passed the coop again, on her way to 
the kitchen, she came to a sudden stop, gave a fierce little shout 
of alarm, dropped the tray of flour and lard (she was careful 
that it dropped upon the well-kept pavement), and went rushing 
back to the house. 

"Ole Mis'!" she exclaimed, at the top of her lungs, ''0 Lord, 
ole Mis', ef somebody ain' gone en stole ole marster's bufday 
tuckey !" 

The gobbler was gone. Aunt Angeline led the lamentations, 
after which she carefully scooped up the spilled flour, and set it 
aside with the lard, before she went to the pantry again for a 
fresh supply, with which to prepare the master's breakfast. She 
heard the family at breakfast laughing while they told each other 
how finding the gobbler gone had "so shocked poor Aunt Angie 
that she dropped the biscuit tray on the pavement and screamed." 
While they were enjoying the recital, "poor Aunt Angie" quietly 
took the keys from the basket on the table behind "old Mis'," 
and went down to the cellar and helped herself to the bottle of 
wine that was "ter keep down a church scan'le, en no sin ter 
tek it." 

The supper was a great success. The biscuits were as light 
and as white as ever adorned the table of old Mis' herself. The 
coffee was strongly akin to that which had been served at the 
squire's table at breakfast, dinner and supper, and of which the 
mistress had remarked, "Three times to-day has the coffee failed 
to go around." The fruit cake ought to have been as good as 
the best: "Tuk ole Mis' fo' level hours to mek it," said Ange- 



118 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

line, as with a proudly sad regret, she placed the stolen chunk 
upon the sacrificial board. 

Her crowning act, however, was when, an hour later, she rose 
in her place, carving knife in hand, head gracefully a-tilt, and 
said, "Brudder Ellis, kin I he'p you to a moufful o' dis tuckey ?" 

Later still, when she laid her wickedly sharp old head upon 
her pillow, she promptly proceeded to set aside the threatened 
tilt with conscience, after her own self-satisfying, if not strictly 
logical manner of reasoning: "Ole marse's tuckey? What if 't 
.am? Jail me fur stealin'? Heh ? I wuck fur dat man's pappy 
thirty years, good en faithful. An' now fur one po' ole tuckey 
gobbler talk 'bout putt'n' o' me in jail? De zwsurance ob some 

folks." 

"Swing low, sweet charryot, 

Oomin' fur ter cyarry me home; — 
Swing low, sweet charryot, 
Oomin' fur ter cyarry me home." 

Will Allen Dromgoole. 



IIAUNTED. 119 



HAUNTED. 

And so the old house is haunted, you say ; 
And men look askance as they pass in the street; 
Ah, well, you say true, for turn where I may, 
Pale ghosts of the past rise unbid at my feet. 

Sitting alone by my desolate hearth, 

The shadowy phantoms come thronging around ; 
Phantoms of pleasures that died in their birth, 

And sorrows that never a burial found. 

Pale faces gaze at me I fain would forget, 
And voices long hushed wake to music again ; 

Each dusky old corridor's echoing yet 
With footsteps that memory would still in vain 

There's a ghost in the garret, a ghost in the hall, 
Each chamber, so silent and empty you see, 

With its barren expanses of blank bare wall, 
Has a ghostly inhabitant waiting for me. 

That old arm-chair, do you think, by the fire, 
Is vacant? Ah, no ! when the embers burn low, 

Comes the vision at eve of a gray-headed sire, 
And spreads its thin palms in the sullen red glow. 



120 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

This sofa, moth-eaten and useless for years, 
Once pillowed the saintliest sufferer's head; 

Oh, mother! 'twould spare me my bitterest tears 
Would memory but leave you at rest with the dead. 

For joj'S that are gone, when remembered again, 
Like flowers bereft of their sweets by the frost, 

Are poor withered things that do but retain 
The thorns of the rose when its fragrance is lost. 

Step light by that closet, breathe soft as you go, 
For there is the specter I dread most of all ; 

There's a skeleton hid in each household, you know ; 
Come this way — that picture you see on the wall, 

With the round rosy lips and the clustering hair ; 

She's a ghost now, that hovers each night at my door; 
And those little worn shoes— do you think I can't hear 

Their patterings yet on the old oaken floor? 

Why is it, I wonder, the past never dies, 
Though you bury it deep as the ocean's bed ? 

From the lowest abyss 'twill unbidden arise, 
And live in eternity when 3 7 ou are dead. 

See here, where a nuptial couch was spread, 

But the bridegroom's content with a pillow of clay, 

And the bride, she is faded and old and unwed ; 
She hath s.'en but the ghost of her marriage day. 



HA UNTED. 121 

For visions there are of times and of places 
That come to us oft as our life waxes old, 

As well as of people and voices and faces, 
Shivering bodiless out in the cold. 

Yes, the old house is haunted, the people say true, 
Go, leave me alone with my shadowy host; 

With the living and loving, what have I to do ? 
For I am myself but an unburied ghost. 

E. F. Andrews. 



122 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



UNDER THE ROSE. 

A few hundred feet off the railway line that connects two 
small Georgia towns is an old-fashioned house in a setting of 
magnolias and jessamine. A Lamarque rose, deep rooted in the 
fertile soil, creeps up the corner column, and traveling along from 
pillar to pillar, veils the upper windows. When the winds blow 
it sheds a summer snow of petals among the flaming gladioli. 

The house was there long before the railway was laid and it 
seems altogether to disapprove of the rush and roar of modern 
machinery and grieve that curious eyes should once per day peer 
in upon its privacy. 

There have been many changes in the old homes of Georgia. 
The new order of things has swept away fiom them the families 
that gave them name and being, brought them into the glare 
from the shadow, and left many that were wont to smile out up 
the dark lanes leading away off to the county seat, facing the 
wrong way. The headlight of locomotives blaze at night where 
the regal peafowl had sunk his colors, and the lazy hens gathered 
in repose. 

But this house was less unfortunate than some of its neigh- 
bors, for the lazy surveyor, when he reached it, had long since 
ceased to keep his line in the fields and wood and adopted the 
lane itself, leaving the patient and bewildered farmers to plan a 
new route to the courthouse. Willing or unwilling the old house 
was brought face to face with life. 




UNDER THE ROSE. 



UNDER THE ROSE. 125 



To its living master, when the house lost its privacy, it lost 
its charm. Immersed in philosophy, the silence of its isolation 
was as necessary to him as to the prophets of old. For awhile 
he was accustomed, when the train passed, to stand upon the 
veranda, his gray hairs almost touching the pale Lamarque and 
moodily view the garish colors of the coaches crossing his be- 
loved landscape, the heavy clouds of bituminous smoke settling 
into the recesses of his groves, and the strangers who, instead of 
entering decorously under the arch of his gateway, swept through 
his premises without so much as a nod or a good morning. Then 
he would return to his philosophy cheerlessly and strive to forget 
his misfortune. Soon he removed his study to a rear room and 
consigned the new order of things to oblivion, shuddering in the 
night when he heard the derisive shriek of the locomotive— de- 
risive he was sure, although the creek trestle was but half a mile 
away and it was but just that the man at the throttle should 
sound a warning. 

But there are philosophies that delight the intellect without 
deepening and broadening the humanity beneath it. If this were 
not true there would be no story to tell about the old house and 
its inmates. 

Fifteen years before the story became ripe for the telling, a 
disappointed daughter had drifted back to the old house for 
refuge, and then into eternity, leaving a motherless babe to any- 
body's care. The anybody in this instance proved to be one of 
the motherly old servants whom nothing but death can drive 
away from the scenes of their youth, and who linger not alto- 
gether useless upon the stage. In this old soul, imbued with all 
the pride and gentleness of the family, the babe found a friend. 



126 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

It bloomed in the wilderness, and, as the Lamarque crept from 
pillar to pillar, grew in strength and beauty. 

And the old philosopher : While he was wandering with his 
head in the stars the mystery of the flower at his feet was un- 
folding. 

Then came the engine and perished isolation. When the gray 
head was seen no more under the Lamarque, a golden one re- 
mained. Old Joe, the engineer, learned to look for it as the days 
passed and the monotony of his run grew upon him, and to smile 
as the little figure danced in the sunlight and clapped hands in 
its excitement. Sometimes the figure came down to the gate and 
swung upon it, and as Joe waved his hand, waved an absurd 
sunbonnet in return. 

So rolled away the months and the years. No rivals came to 
the road and few changes. And few of importance came to the 
old^home. The magnolias were simply taller, the jessamines 
ranker, and the Lamarque reached the last pillar. But now the 
girl was not always seen upon the porch or at the gate; some- 
times the train found her at the crossing sitting demurely in the 
buggy with her school books while the half -blind old coachman 
held back the only surviving and very respectable carriage horse 
to keep him from injuring the new fangled thing the common 
people had built to ride in. But she still waved her hand and 
smiled and not only the engineer and fireman, but the conductor, 
the brakeman and newsboy replied, and every honest soul of 
them carried the memory of that sunny head with the dancing 
eyes and red-brown cheeks. And there had been added to them 
another ; a blue-aproned young man once a day laid aside his 
letters, stood in the doorway of his car, and swung his braided 
cap as the figure of the girl gleamed upon his vision. 



UNDER THE ROSE. 127 

Just how it happened, no one knows. Old Joe was first to 
voice the general conclusions. 

"There's Jack's sweetheart," he said once, as the train rushed 
over the crossing, and drew from the old coachman an indignant 
denunciation of people who cast dust upon a member of the par- 
ticular family he was serving; and, by universal consent, Jack's 
sweetheart she became. Jack, as he swung the mail bags in and 
out, blushed, but did not deny it. Then Jack's car began to have 
Lamarques in it, and now and then throughout the summer, 
the old coachman came to the car at the station, and placed 
therein a basket of blue and white grapes and pomegranates, the 
coolest of raspberries, and rarest of melons. And now and then, 
a little split stick, with a letter thrust into it, went out of the car 
door, and lodged upon no less than the sacred soil of the old 
philosopher's lawn. There was none to forbid. 

One day, the little woman made her appearance at the sta- 
tion near at hand, and stood blushing by the doorway of Jack's 
car, and nodded and smiled to old Joe, as he leaned from his cab, 
and smiled back to her through the bituminous gloom of his 
countenance — to the conductor, as his eyes twinkled and cap was 
doffed ; to the grinning newsboy, and brakeman. When the timid 
little woman pronounced the words, "Are there any letters for 
me?" every mother's son of them disappeared like magic, and 
not a sound of laughter ever issued from their places of retire- 
ment, but they failed not to ask Jack the same question, until 
one day the newsboy got his ears cuffed. 

It was the first time that any of them had met her, but not 
the last time. As the months passed, many and many a time she 
stood by the car door, and asked for the letters that never came 
and talked with Jack, and brought him little baskets of flowers 

10 



128 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

or fruits, plucked with her own hands. And after awhile, there 
came a sad and pensive look in her sunny face, and they under- 
stood, for Jack had told her that he had a lung trouble, and it 
was serious. Few people would have doubted it to hear him 
cough. 

The hearts of her transient friends went out to her during 
those long days, as she kept her trysts there by the car door, 
twisting her bonnet strings in and out among her brown fingers, 
and looking off into vacuum with unfocused vision, as she talked 
with Jack. How little she seemed! And yet— and yet — there 
was about her, despite the simple dress reaching the shoe tops 
only, the half-tied clustering hair, the childish figure shifting 
from one foot to the other nervously — something that suggested 
the woman, rather than the girl. 

CHAPTER II. 

And the year passed ! But not without stirring events in the 
life of Jack's sweetheart. One night there came upon the old 
mansion a storm so fierce, that even Mammy Phyllis, with her 
eighty years of memories, could find no equal for it. The philos- 
opher stood at his window, smiling into the tumult, charmed 
with the exhibition of nature's force and phenomena. It was a 
mimicry of that dim hour, when new worlds were slowly evolv- 
ing from chaos, and systems getting into respectable shape! 
Naturally, he was delighted. But the girl lay awake and fright- 
ened, in her room. She knew the hour; it was nearly time for 
Jack's train upon its return run, and in the lulls and lapses of the 
tempest, she fancied she could hear the hum and murmur of the 
flood that swept under the dangerous creek trestle. Once before, 



UNDER THE ROSE. 129 

the structure had been carried away, and surely it could not live 
in such a storm as this ! When she shut her eyes, she could see 
the train rushing into the black abyss, and hear Jack's cry for 
help. Three times between waking and sleeping, she heard the 
voice, and then she felt within her heart the thrill that has made 
heroines and martyrs of women through all the ages of history. 
She arose and crept out upon the rear porch, and listened in- 
tently. Beyond a doubt, no wind in the pines could deceive her; 
it was Jack's voice, she thought. Lighting the stable lantern, 
and tying a hat over her disordered hair, and setting her white 
face against the blast, she plunged into the night. The vivid light- 
ning, the tumultuous rush of the winds, the stinging rain, made 
up an hour of danger that no woman, except a woman in love, 
could have faced. 

She reached the trestle in safety, but wearied to exhaustion, 
and passed out upon it; and then as she looked down into the 
rushing waters and the black bosom of death, for the first time 
she grew faint and her strength wavered. But it was not at 
sight of the waters; the central bench of the trestle was gone, 
and the light from her lantern as it streamed out, shone along 
two rails that swung a line of unsupported cross-ties above the 
chasm. There was no time for thought. Over the dangerous 
place she crept, the suspended structure trembling under her 
weight; and as she moved she prayed aloud, prayed one fervid 
and unchanging prayer over and over. Then, from the gloom 
ahead, borne on by the swelling tempest, there came a wild, 
weird, piercing blast, and as the familiar note struck upon her 
hearing, the girl straightened, and fearing no more, bounded for- 
ward and stood upon firm ground. What happened seemed af- 
terwards to her like a dream. She knew that she swung the Ian- 



130 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

tern frantically in a confusion of signals, and a great fiery eye 
came around the bend and grew larger and larger as it glared 
upon her; there was a creaking and roaring and clanking of ma- 
chinery and hurrying forward of dots of light to the white glare 
that bathed her form as she stood between the rails still 
swinging her lantern. Then old Joe, she thought, seemed to have 
his arm about her, and his gray face close to hers. A voice said : 

"God bless me, it's Jack's sweetheart." And then Jack came 
and took her from him, and when she besought him to go back 
out of the rain, he only stared past her with his wide-open eyes 
and whispered hoarsely, "Look! Look! Look!" 

And down behind her something seemed to vanish noiselessly, 
and a black torrent rolled where the trestle had been. 

CHAPTER III. 

It was soon after the night of the storm that the oldphioso- 
pher came back from the stars, and was seen in the village for 
the first time in many years. "My granddaughter" was a 
phrase upon his lips for a week, and it is said that he once led 
her under a portrait in the parlor, tipped her face up by the chin 
and grew very thoughtful. But a few days after he seemed to 
have solved some mystery, and there was a storm indeed. 

"What," he exclaimed, "my granddaughter! A railroad 
man ! Impossible; impossible !" And then he was at home to no 
more visitors, but got himself speedily back unto the stars. 

One day the train came by the old home without bell or whis- 
tle. Old Joe sat upon his box with head bent forward, a statue 
in blue granite. The fireman gazed into the opposite field. 
Neither conductor nor newsboy nor brakeman looked out upon 



UNDER THE ROSE. 131 

the pale girl who stood silent under the Lamarque from which 
every bud and blossom seemed to have been stripped. Across the 
door of the mail car there hung a festoon of crepe. Suddenly as 
the engine rushed out upon the trestle the whistle sounded, softly 
swelling out to only half pitch and dying away slowly into noth- 
ingness. The tireman looked quickly upon the bent figure of the 
engineer, and instinctively reaching up his hand, tolled the bell 
once. And in the smoker, where they had gathered away from 
sight of the old house, three people who wore the braided caps 
lifted them from their heads and looked into each others faces. 
And the old man speaking, as if to himself, said softly : 
"Ole Joe 'es prayin' fer you, Missy !" 

Harry Stillwell Edwards. 



132 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 



"^T 7 "TfF* 



SLEEP. 

Thou best of all, God's choicest blessing, Sleep; 
Better than earth can offer — wealth, power, fame; 
They change, decay; thou always art the same; 
Through all the years thy freshness thou d ost keep, 
Over all lands thine even pinions sweep ; 
The sick, the worn, the blind, the lone, the lame, 
Hearing thy tranquil footsteps, bless thy name ; 
Anguish is soothed, sorrow forgets to weep. 
Thou ope'st the captive's cell and bid'st him roam ; 
Thou giv'st the hunted refuge, fre'st the slave, 
Show'st the outcast pity, call'st the exile home; 
Beggar and king thine equal blessings reap, 
We for our loved ones wealth, joy, honors crave; 
But God, He giveth His beloved— Sleep. 

Thomas Nelson Page. 



"Tfv^ "^p 7 



PRACTICAL WORDS TO SOUTHERN WRITERS. 133 



PRACTICAL WORDS TO SOUTHERN WRITERS. 

With that phenomenal growth of really good literature that 
followed the true "reconstruction" of the South, there sprouted, 
not unnaturally, a vast amount of the weedy and worthless rub- 
bish of imitation. 

Yet this in no sense intimates that there is not an amount of 
latent talent hidden in the South, still undreamed of; and vast 
enough in volume, diverse enough in ambitious grasp, yet to 
astound even her own people. What alone it needs to develop it, 
is proper friction, or rather, proper application of it. For fric- 
tion of a certain sort it gets in plenty, while the moan over broken 
hopes fills the air, and stacks of "rejected addresses" line the rug- 
ged path to the back door of experience. 

It is plainly very easy to suggest to young writers "how not 
to doit." 

They may paraphrase Mr. Greeley's philosophy about resump- 
tion of the specie payments, and accept as an axiom that the easiest 
way to write successfully is, not to write! But it is far more 
difficult to answer practically that wail, which comes up unceas- 
ing to the ear of every editor and critic, for suggestions as to 
those modes of writing which must succeed. As simple as that 
advice, was the search after the "Philosopher's stone;" more so, 
in fact, for the varying classes of mind, of taste and of inborn 
habit of expression are absolutely infinite. 

What would be capital advice to one, would merely promote 
certain suicide in the next score; and to lay down any fixed rule, 



134 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

that is worth the conning, presupposes close and intimate ac- 
quaintance with that particular mind for which it is meant. 

Only one general rule may be considered invariably applicable; 
and that may be condensed into the endorsement I once put upon 
one of the many early and crude efforts of a woman, since brill- 
iant, erratic and successful, perhaps, beyond any of her sister 
novelists of the Indian-summer school. As a girl, she always 
begged honest criticism; and upon one pet effort— which has since 
gone widely forth, in form as widely changed — I wrote: "Read 
before you write again, and remember that human nature may 
become as legible as any other book." 

This may be largely generalization. But so must be all rules, 
meant for the greatest good of the many, just so long as God 
makes men and women with minds as different as their faces. 
For the rest, common sense suggestions to fit most cases are 
simply these : 

Do your very best, in whatever you attempt to write, striving 
to make each article as much better than its predecessor as you 
possibly can, by careful revision and especially by condensation. 
As a rule, the best writing is that which tells its story, or proves 
its point with least waste of words. It is a safe average belief to 
cultivate, that what seems best and brightest in one's own work 
—especially if it smacks of lightness or flippancy — had best be 
omitted. The public is a many-minded animal; and the very 
touch that tickles your own ears so pleasantly, probably from 
familiarity or some local cause, is too apt to make him back his 
quite dangerously. 

It is wise to beware of attempted "versatility"— strong word, 
that has burthens far too onerous thrust upon it !— and to con- 
centre upon one special theme, and with all the powe r in you, so 



PRACTICAL WORDS TO SOUTHERN WRITERS. 135 

much of thought, information and experience of life, as you 
may possess. If that theme be proved the wrong one by fair 
trial, do not scatter your energies. Be brave enough to leave it 
promptly and wholly, and to strike out upon another, and radi- 
cally different one. 

One warning may be absolute and general. Avoid all handling 
of unclean things ; and shun as the plague, that so-called risque 
school, which already begins to shadow, with its evil influence 
the work of many young writers— particularly beginners among 
women. For the belief, current in uninstructed quarters, that lit- 
erary smut pays best, is the boldest of fallacies. Broadly or 
quaintly put, it may catch the ear of the groundling readers, for 
the moment; but it is morally certain to make the judicious 
grieve permanently. 

There is one rule of professional writing which should never 
be abrogated by any who hope for ultimate success : 

Never print anything thatis not paid for at some sort of valua- 
tion. The price offered may seem inadequate; perhaps, ab- 
surdly so, in the strong reflection of self-esteem. But the fact 
that a skilled purchaser rates effort at any value at all, in a 
crowded market where supply vastly exceeds demand, is intrinsic 
proof that it is presently valuable, and of future promise. And 
adherence to this rule should not be for the sordid reason of mere 
money-getting, but for the higher one of incentive to worthier 
effort. 

Finally, it were well to warn all sorts of writers never to be 
oversanguine ; never impatient at all. If articles, of any kind 
soever, be sent to the great centres, it should be remembered that 
these are very full and very busy ones, ever; that the competi- 
tion is infinite; and that able, practiced and noted pens may 



136 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

have chanced to treat the self-same theme that has suggested 
itself to the new sender. 

But, for his comfort, the beginner may recall that there was 
a beginning, also, for his most successful competitor ; that as such 
began, so may he, with perseverance, care and — merit. The old 
German proverb is philosophy, "One must creep, before he may 
walk." 

For his further comfort, let him know that almost any old, ex- 
perienced essayist, romancer, or other writer, might thus con- 
crete his own experience into practical truth. I can frankly de- 
clare that I never considered any article of my own positivelv 
good, or bad, from a commercial standpoint, until I received 
the check for it. What seemed the very best to me, was 
frequently "turned down" by skilled judges, who probably knew 
far better what was best for the public taste. 

T. C. DeLeon. 



*-HN5)M^«-* 



BOYHOOD'S DREAM ISLAND. 137 



BOYHOOD'S DREAM ISLAND. 

I know of a beautiful island, 

Far down in the path of life's stream, 
By music's soft magic enchanted— 

'Tis the isle of my boyhood's dream. 
How sweet the bird-hymns of that island, 

How gladsome the song of the rill, 
And the musical voices of playmates 

That dwell on the island still ! 

Sweet island of beauty, I love thee; 

I long for thy peaceful repose, 
And the rainbow of promise above thee 

That circled the bloom of the rose ! 

And now on the dream-tide of slumber, 

I drift to that island again, 
And lo ! the bright visions of childhood 

Eclipse the sad pictures of pain ! 
I hear the soft music of minstrels 

That charmed the sweet twilights of old 
And bathe in the glory of sunsets 

That melted the days into gold. 

Bright island of beauty, I love thee! 

Oh, give me again thy repose, 
And the rainbow of promise above thee 

That circled the bloom of the rose ! 



138 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

No cares ever haunted my spirit 

On that beautiful island of bliss, 
And visions of paradise charmed me 

Unveiled by a mother's fond kiss. 
But shadows since then have fallen, 

And Sorrow has threaded her seam, 
And I long to be quiet forever 

On the isle of my boyhood's dream ! 

Dear island of beauty, I love thee, 

And may I forever repose 
'Neath the summer-lit arch of the rainbow 

That circled the bloom of the rose ! 

L. L. Knight. 



>^^«- 



*»@M%«-* 



THE CHILD OF TALLULAH. 139 



THE CHILD OF TALLULAH. 
AN INDIAN LEGEND. 

One of the fairest portions of the State of Georgia is the 
mountainous section lying north of Hall and Banks counties, 
and between the Tugalo and Broad rivers. 

Through the entire extent of the upland, flows a small stream, 
winding here and there, through fertile vale and over moun- 
tain cliff, losing itself in some gloomy chasm and reappearing, to 
ripple on, like a silver thread against a sombrebackground, finally 
ending in a mad, surging torrent— the picturesque falls of Tal- 
lulah, the Terrible. 

It was near this spot, lonely, but grand, there stood years ago 
an Indian village; and here Oneco, the hero of our sketch, first 
saw the light. He was the son of a great warrior, who, in his 
time, held mighty sway over his people. 

A genuine child of Nature, Oneco loved his mountain home, 
and every foot of ground was dear to his heart. The roaring of 
the cataract had been the lullaby that hushed him to sleepin in- 
fancy, and its grand and mournful music had power, even now, 
to dispel his fiercest mood. 

One day while returning to the village, he chanced upon a 
strange figure which blocked his way. He spurned the prostrate 
form, and with his foot would have sent it tumbling down the 
mountain-side; but the hood, becoming loosened, fell off, and 
Oneco uttered an ejaculation of surprise. This was no squaw, as 



140 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

he had supposed. Instead of the swarthy brow and raven hair 
of an Indian, there lay a woman with fair skin and locks like 
threads of gold. Under the shawl folded about her shoulders, 
nestled a little child. 

Oneco hesitated, evidently touched by the woman's fate. He 
bent over her lifeless figure, a strange expression lighting up his 
countenance. 

"Thesquawis dead," he said. "I will carry the papoose to the 
village; theold women shall take care of her until she is grown." 

* * # * * * * * * -X- * * * 

Years passed. The^ foot of the white man penetrated the 
forest, and, inch by inch, the red man disputed his advance. The 
bounding step of the Indian is becoming sly and stealthy now, 
for the mouarchs of the forest are contending with the forces of 
civilization. 

A trapper from the mountains of North Carolina, whilst on 
an excursion through the country, found himself upon a broad 
plateau some thirteen hundred feet above the level of the sea. He 
was clad in the rough, picturesque garb of the hunter, making al- 
together a striking representative of the era in which he lived, as 
he stood leaning upon his staff, watching the dawning of a new 
day. 

A cautious step startled him, and he grasped his rifle, as the 
lithe, supple figure of an Indian chief emerged from behind the 
cliff. It was Oneco, now many years removed from happy boy- 
hood. Each eyed the other furtively; then the white man ex- 
tended his hand. Oneco drew himself proudly up. 

"The paleface comes even here!" he said, sadly. "Here, where 
I hoped to be forever alone with my beloved Wachita and the 
Great Spirit." 



THE GUILD OF TALLULAH. Ill 

"The Great Spirit you speak of," replied the hunter, "is my 
fathers' God. Can we not both worship Him from this lofty 
height. I bear the red man no ill-will. Let us be friends! Let 
us smoke!" 

Oneco hesitated, regarding him cautiously; then taking out 
his pipe, they smoked in silence. 

Suddenly Heustis espied hiding behind a huge bowlder, an elfin 
creature, half woman, half child, who was regarding him with a 
strangely eager and enraptured gaze. He uttered an involuntary 
murmur of surprise and delight; and was bounding forward to 
speak to her, when Oneco dashed past him, seized the girl's hand 
and led her to the very top of the rock upon which they stood. 

"Wachita is late," he said, tenderly, but reproachfully. The 
day -god grows red with anger at the delay." Wachita hung her 
head at this implied rebuke; then, after a moment, burst forth 
into a wild, impassioned improvisation to the sun. Her golden 
tresses floated in careless grace over her white shoulders and 
dress. Her blue eyes were lifted upward with a world of eager 
longing in their depths. She looked like some priestess of old, 
ready for the altar of sacrifice. Before them spread the glorious 
landscape ! In the distance the murmur of the ever restless Tal- 
lulah sounded like a soft accompaniment to her morning chant. 

The face of Heustis was radiant. Strange emotions swayed 
his soul. He listened for a moment, enraptured ; then tearing 
himself away from the spot, hurried down the mountain, utterly 
unable to fathom this new and strangely blended emotion of 
delight and regret, of exaltation and infinite despair. 

Wachita continued her song. Oneco flung himself at her feet 
and gazed into her blue eyes with intensity of feeling. When she 
had ended, he threw his protecting arm about her girlish figure, 



142 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

and with a passionate cry, clasped her to his bosom and bounded 
away over cliff and valley; a great joy, not unmixed with pain, 

tugging at his heart. 

************* 

Under an angle formed by a great rock, which served to screen 
Wachita from rain and sun, lay the white girl. Many days have 
passed since she chanted her hymn to the sun-god. She has been 
ill of a fever. After anxious nights and days of suffering, Oneco 
consented to leave her in quest of medicine and food. 

He had been gone but an hour, when she fancied she heard 
footsteps approaching. Grasping the hunting knife Oneco had 
given her, she peered out from her desolate hiding place. Cau- 
tiously the steps drew nearer. Then a dark figure blocked its en- 
trance, and a voice she had heard before whispered tender^, "Be 
not afraid, Wachita, it is I ! For days I have watched Oneco, 
hoping he might leave you. At last, I am here to deliver you 
from your lonely life. You shall go to my mountain home! You 
shall be restored to your people! Tallulah shall know your glad 
laugh no more! How beautiful you are in the pale moonlight, my 
matchless Wachita, more beautiful than when your fair face first 
stirred my heart' From that very hour I have loved you with 
my whole soul; strange, incomparable creature!" 

A glad light crept intohereyes, and her whole countenance be- 
came radiant. She burst forth into one of her wierdly impas- 
sioned songs, a wail, whose echoes died away and were lost in the 
moaning of the restless cataract. Then, placing her hand within 
that of Heustis, she said, "Take me withersoever you will, I am 
yours!" 

The hunter raised her emaciated form, folded her in his arms 
and bounded away, a triumphant smile lighting up his handsome 
face. 



THE CHILD OF TALLULAH. 143 

Oneco, speeding away on his errand of love, beard the voice he 
had learned to know, as the eagle the cry of her young; heard 
the impassioned chant so full of love and of regret (For though 
the maiden's heart thrilled with this new and passionate love 
for one of her own race, she remembered, with gratitude, the 
kindness and devotion of the Indian.) and hurried up the ascent. 
He grasped his bow more firmly, and like some beast at bay, 
stood upon an outlying crag that commanded a view of many 
miles. His trained eye swept the horizon. Something he saw 
caused his form to sway with uncertain motion, and a bitter cry 
of grief and rage escaped his lips; then he sank down, paralyzed 
at the sight of Wachita resting on the bosom of Heustis as he 
bore her from him forever. But only a moment of inactivity 
elapsed. Recovering from the shock, Oneco hastened after the 
fugitives. His feelings might be read in the swollen veins of brow 
and throat, and the burning light in his eye. 

The hunter pressed forward with increasing speed, but, bur- 
dened as he was, Oneco was rapidly gaining ground. Heustis drew 
out his hunting knife and clasped it between his teeth, while 
Wachita shuddered, but clung to him wildly, urging on his falter- 
ing footsteps with every word of endearment and affection at her 
command. 

Oneco's unerring instinct comprehended his adversary's aim. 
It was to pass under the ledge of rocks that barred their way and 
lose himself in the intricacies of the Grand Chasm. Quick as 
thought, the wily Indian intercepted his flight by crossing, at peril- 
ous height, a shelving rock the hunter had avoided. Before the 
pursued, lay a bluff five hundred feet high. The Indian was forc- 
ing him to take this route. A moment and the hunter stood on 



144 THOUGHT BLOSSOMS FROM THE SOUTH. 

the verge of the precipice. He glanced anxiously at Wachita. 
Something in her look reassured him. 

Oneco comprehended the glance of triumph in his rival's eye. 
He drew his bow. In a twinkling, the arrow sped true to its 
aim. The stalwart figure of the hunter swayed, rocked, then, still 
clasping Wachita to his breast, leaped into the yawning abyss. 
Oneco paused a moment at the brink of the precipice, drew out his 
hunting knil e, and with a yell of savage fury, bounded over the 
rock and fell, a mangled heap at the feet of his victims. He 
seemed to feel no pain, but twisted his maimed body until it 
rested nearer that of Heustis; then plunging his knife through 
the body of his adversary, pinned it to the ground. In another 
moment, he had lifted the golden-haired Wachita from the moist 
earth and pillowed her fair head upon his own bosom. The pale 
moon climbed high in the heavens. The long night passed slowly 
away. When the sun's rays kissed the eastern hilltops, and the 
eagle's fierce cry for food was heard above the moanings of Tal- 
lulah, Oneco's soul passed into the presence of the Great Spirit, 
there to meet his victims. 

But the mad torrent, leaping onward in its flight to the ocean, 
still sends back a plaintive wail for the lost child of the forest. 

Annie H. Smith. 



MISS E. SHERWOOD JETER, 



4©f KI3MK EUMLDHMG? 



PDRTRAIT 
PAINTING-, 



Landscape and 
Decorative Work 



INSTRUCTIONS GIVEN IN FREE- 
HAND DRAWING AND PAINTING. 



Poiriiriyft W&mkiWQ & Jpeeialfty,, 



STUDIO OPEN From 9 until I, and from 3 until 6 
. . . o'clock. . . . 

VISITORS WELCOME. 



ILL 



)T 



IMPORTER OF 



HAVafflA ILBAF TOBACCO. 



MANUFACTURER OF 



nm mm 



No. 35i W. Alabama Street, 



ATLANTA, o OEOROI 



LOANS UPON ATLANTA .... 
.... IMPROVED REAL ESTATE. 

.... we f«Q©TniATe loan s .■ . . . 

Upon central Business rent-paying property, at 6 per cent., and upon best class of 
Residence property, at 7 percent., five years time, interest payable semi- annually. 
Limited amounts always on hand. 

mib nmr^mES pom s$le 9 

REPRESENTING ABOVE CLASS OF SECURITY. 

WEYMAN & CONNORS, 
&2$ Equitable Building, Atlanta, Ga. 



THE SINGER MANUFACTURING CO. 

The Sewing Machine Manufacturers of the World. 



Important to Manufacturers: 

OUR MODEL PLANT a™ 
EXTENSIVE SHOW ROOMS, 

^^385 Broadway, NEW YORK CITY 



Ten Million 

Machines 
Made and Sold. 



Over 100 Distinct Processes of Manufacture in Constant, Practical Operation, with the Latest Appliances in 

Power and Electric Fittings. New Methods and Improvements are being continually added. 

Machines will be delivered at any point free of expense. 



Bhanch : 139 Salem Avenue, Roanoke, Va. 



Sub-branches: 



f Wytheville, Va. 
{ Bluefield, W. Va. 



Radford, Va. 
Bristol, Tenn. 



THE SINGER MANUFACTURING CO. 

General Office for Virginia, North and South Carolina, West Virginia, Georgia, 
Florida, Alabama and Tennessee, 

C. G. Lambert, GenT Agent. 205 E. Broad St., Richmond, Va. 

Directly represented in every Principal City, where reliable men can always find employment. 



The Cheapest 



000 



Y GOODS HOU' 



000 



OH EARTH 



Co 





a* 





o 



Tbe Ladi®s s Baz&aiTo 37 WbitefeaH St 



V 

G. B. Rowbotham, President. J. F. Dickinson, Treasurer. F. W. Carter, Secretary. 

SOUTHERN BELTING CO. 

MANUFACTURERS OF 

. , . . Oak Tanned Leather Belting. 



. . . AGENTS FOR . . . 
Boston Belting" Company, 

Rubber Belting, Fire Hose, Packing, Etc. 

Office and Factory, 51 Decatur Street, 

ATLANTA, - - - GEORGIA. 

Graton & Knight Manufacturing Co. 

Nos. 36 and 38 West Alabama Street, 
ATLANTA, GA. 



tanners of p ure Oak Bark Tanned Leather, 



AND MANUFACTURERS OF 



Pure Oak Bark Tanned Leather Belting. 
Tanning Capacity, 146,000 Hides Per Annum. 



notice:. 

I want every man and woman in the 
United States interested in the Opium 
and Whisky habits to have one of my 
books on these diseases. Address B. M. 
Wool ley, Atlanta, Ga., Box 887, and one 
will be sent you free 

If you want Wedding or Holiday Presents in 

PRETTY CHINA 

OOT " LYGETT S, 8 ^ Whitehall St. 

LESSONS IN china AND oil- PAINTING. 
ART MATERIALS FOR SALE. 

AVIIITE CHINA FOR DECORATION A SPECIALTY. 

Mrs. A. E. ASHWORTH, 
fashionable = jj res smaller, 

. . OVER . . 

DOUGLAS, THOMAS & DAVISON'S. 

NORTHWESTERN 

MUTUAL LIFE INSURANGEGO. 

MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN. 

Assets over $73,000,000. 

Surplus over $14,000,000. 

LARGEST ANNUAL AND TONTINE DIVIDENDS. 

W. WOODS WHITE, General Agent, 

ATLANTA, GEORGIA. 

MONUMENTAL WORKS OF 

J.W.ROBBINS&SON, 

DEALERS IN 

All Kinds of Marble and Granite, 

COR. HUNTER ST. AND CAPITOL AVE., 

ATLANTA, - - GEORGIA. 



"THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP," 

78 N. Broad St., Atlanta, GA. 

II you are a stranger— or if you are an Atlantian— you 
want to visit "The Old curiosity Shop" — which fur- 
nishes you mure pleasure, than any other place in this 
city. You'll find "en manse," all kinds of things — the 
useful, the ornamental, the " useless." "Food for 
thought" will he supplied you— if you are inclined to 
"retrospection," as we have "old-time affairs" that 
were once "beautiful, unique," and yet useful, the mem- 
ories of which cluster around them, and furnish you 
will ideas of the "old and the new." "The past and 
present," unite together here — and if you are bent on 
"business or pleasure," we have the place for you to 
"look into." All sorts of household and office effects 
can be found here. "Curios," the "Antique," the 
"Modern" old-time Mahogany affairs find their way to 
us, for sale — things that once belonged to "our ante 
bill inn" ancestors, who lived like kings — and were 
"lords of all." 

Passed into memory, their elfects "pass this wav," and 
are offered for sale — at your own price — but nearly all of 
these things have a history, some touching, others — 
well, you draw on your imagination. Now you 
"press" the button," memory does the rest — THEN — 
there wasn't any buttons to press. 

No matter what you want— on short notice, we can 
supply it— and if you have ANYTHING at all, with 
value' to it, we can find you a purchaser. Come and 
see us for awhile, and you'll be interested. 

ACKERMAN & CO. 



Coleman, Burden & Warthen Co, 

WHOLESALE DEALERS IN 

Boots and Shoes, 

Cor. Pryor and Decatur Sts., 

ATLANTA, - GEORGIA. 

THE C. A. DAHL CO. 




Artistic Cut Flower Work a Specialty. 



CITY STORE, 
10 MARIETTA STn'EET. 



GREENHOUSES, 

RICE STREET. 



WE ARK THE ONLY MANUFACTURERS OF CLOTHING IN THE SOUTH 
DEALING WITH THE CUSTOMER DIRECT. 

EISEMAN BROS., 

15 and 17 Whitehall Street, 

. ATLANTA. ..... 

COR. 7th AND E. STS., 

WASHINGTON, D. C. 



MANUFACTORY: 

213 W. GERMAN ST., 

BALTIMORE, MD. 



R. F. CORBETT, 

EXCLUSIVE 

CARFKT HOUSE 

No. 4!> Pbachtree St., 
ATLANTA, - - - GEORGIA. 

THE GREAT 

Atlantic and Pacific Tea Co. 

TEAS, 
COFFEES ^D 

SUGARS, 

75 WHITEHALL ST., 

116 PEACHTREE ST., 

ATLANTA, GA. 

200 STORES IN THE U. S. 



OLDEST MUSIC HOUSE IN ATLANTA. 

W. W. CROCKER, Manager. 

o o C!b)Iemf @ Cottage ©irgain)a> „ 



Freyer & Bradley Music Co., 
• • • 63 peachtree. • • • 



paira 



:* 01B 122111 JTOII 



WE BUY BOOKS. (Trade Mark.) 
WE SELL BOOKS. (Trade Mark.) 
WE BLY CONFEDERATE MONEY 
AND STAMPS 

PARTIES OUT OF THE CITY .... 

having books for sale in large or small quanti- 
ties, write vis for full shipping particulars free. 
Address 

ATLANTA, OA. 



CONFEDERATE MONEY, STAMPS AND 

WAR RELICS FOR SALE. 
38 MARIETTA STREET. . . . 



BF®r a Perfect D©m<&mti& ^% |j^ 

ALGEE, STEVENS, CLARK CO. 

RAILWAY SUPPLIES, 

sl9 South Forsyth Street, 
ATLANTA, -- GEORGIA. 

SOUTHERN 



it 



The Greatest Southern System 



CHOICE OF ROUTES 

NORTH, EAST, SOUTH, WEST. 

VESTIBULED TRAINS 
IN ALL DIRECTIONS. 

Apply to any Agent. 

W. A. TURK, S. II. IIARDWICK, 

Gen'l Pass. Agent. A=st. Gen'l Pass. Agent. 

City Ticket Office: Kimball House Corner. 



HOTEL MARION, 

ATLANTA, GA. 




"A PEACEFUL CORNER AT THE COTTON STATES 
AND INTERNATIONAL EXPOSITION." 

IT would be difficult to find in all this Southern land a more 
charming, refined and quiet hostelry than the Hotel Marion, at 

Atlanta, Ga. 

In one of the most desirable residence sections on Pryor Street, 
and within a stone's throw of the Grand Opera House, partially hid- 
den from public gaze and shaded by a very lovely growth of water 
oaks, and otherwise beautified by tropical plants, stands this bijou of 
a place, a striking specimen of Renaissance architecture. 

The house contains forty-six rooms, all of which are large, airy, 
admirably ventilated and well furnished. There are also several 
handsomely appointed suites with private porcelain baths attached. 

Upon entering the place with its broad halls and subdued sur- 
roundings, one is readily reminded of the quiet refinement prevailing 
in the hotels of England and on the continent 

It is the purpose of the proprietor, Mr. Warren Clayton, to sus- 
tain the enviable reputation of his house. The cuisine and attendance 
can be assured will be of the best and the charges will be moderate, 
at the same time catering to only the best class of patronage. A 
number of Chicago families have already secured rooms, and there is 
every promise that the Western metropolis will be well represented 
at the Marion.— Chicago Evening Journal. 




SANITARIUM. 



Private Sanitarium and Dispensary 

For the Treatment of all Diseases of Women. First-class in every respect. Fifteen 
years in successful operation. Every disease, but only Females treated. Permanent 
cures made in a short time of Uterine, Ovarian and Nervous Diseases and all other 
curable diseases. Treatment pleasant and progressive. Dr. Mrs. Rosa F. .Monnish is a 
Graduate of German and American Colleges, and has cured thousands of patients all 
over the Southern States. A limited number of patients accommodated in the Sanitarium. 
Consultation and correspondence strictly confidential. Hours from 9 a. m. to 12 m.; 2 to 
4 p. m. offices and residence, No. 3 Church Street, corner Peachtree, House that Jack 
Built, opposite Grand Opera House, Atlanta, Ga. 

W. A. Monnish, M. I)., Physician and Surgeon, Room 2, 3d floor Chambeiiin & 
Johnson Building Take Elevator. Residence, cor. Peachtree and Church Sts., Atlanta, Ga. 
Specialties:— Diseases of Women, Diseases of the Skin and Nervous System. Medicines 
furnished. Calls promptly attended. Hours— 9 A. m. to 1 1\ m. ; 2 :30 p. m. to 5 p. m. 



^ 



T ke m 



wards ^raLLerg of ftffiotc graphic jftrb, 

To 



dii Street* ATIL^WT^ S QE©HG!A° 
hi®4 ©f Photographic W@rH 

Ut<&4 ®IT| Slfyort WotiCf a©<s! I IJ 

best Style of % 




Photographs fj^gMsJe by PlL^vSH 
LJQHT wlfjert tlfyey ©anroot be 
obtain 



Sail and see our ^pecimeqs and 6et prices 



T1E1LEF 



The Ar lington, 

85 MARIETTA ST. 

A FIRST-CLASS FAMILY HOTEL. 
• • • • 

Everything New. 

Rooms Delightful and Elegantly Furnished. 

Accommodations Strictly First-class 

and Prices Reasonable. 



L. M. DIMICK, Prop'r, 



Atlanta, Ga. 




Clothiers, Hatters 
and Furnishers 



39-41 Whitehall, 



. . ATLANTA. 



J^eely Gorqpany 

Wholesale and Retail 
k)py (gJoocls, C>r)©es errjel olocr^s. 

Cqi\ Whitehall & Hunter Sts., 

Atlanta, G-a. 



DEPARTMENT STORE. 



% 



Dress Goods, Silks, Fancy Goods. Shoes, Crockery, Glassware, 

House Furnishings and Carpets 
46, 48 and 50 WHITEHALL! St., AThAftTA, GEORGIA. 




SHOE 



89 W^lyJl "v^vVU/, ' 74-76.SJro^ 



JVL KUTZ & CO., 

Millinery, 

LEADERS OF FASHION, 

62 WHITEHALL ST., 

ATLANTA, - GEORGIA. 



SE^SD POH Ci^TAiL®iSUli 



o o o 



4 1 -43 Alabama St, s ATLANTA GA° 




A. K. HAWKES, 

12 Wtjitel?all St., ATLANTA, GA. 



Moran 7 s Pharmacy, 

KISER BUILDING, 

COR- PRYOR AND HUNTER STREETS, 

Atlanta, Ga. 



MURK W. JOHNSON SEED COMPANY, 

Growers of and Dealers in 

Seeds of Reliable Quality, 

35 S. PRYOR STREET, ATLANTA, GA. 



SULLIVAN &. CRICHTON'S 




AND SCHOOL OF SHORTHAND. 

The best and cheapest Business College in America. 
Time short. Instruction thorough. 4 Penmen. 
Big demand for graduates. Catalogue free 

S1II.MVAIV & ( ll]< IIIO\. Kis. r llldg., Atlanta, flu. 



Books, Stationery 
and Office Supplies 



•j 



81 and 83 Whitehall St. 

Visitors to the Exposition 
should not fail to call at 
the Warerooms of the . . 



U 



PHILLIPS 
& CREW CO." 

37 PEACHTREE ST., 

and inspect the largest 
stock of Pianos, Organs 
and Musical Instruments 
in the city. - — . 



A. L. DELKIN CO., 
DIAMONDS, 
FINE JEWELRY, 
y- ^- 60 Whitehall St. 

VIGNAUX'S RESTAURANT . . . 
LADIES' CAFE 
and LUNCH COUNTER, 
.... 16 Whitehall Street. 

The Men find favor with 
the Ladies by SMOKING 

ARAGON MIXTURE 

For the Pipe — Mild 
and Sweet 

HARRY SILVERMAN, Maker. 
THE GEORGIA IMMIGRATION 

AND 

INVESTMENT BUREAU. 

This Bureau was established, ami is conducted, for 
the purpose of attracting to Georgia the best class of 
settlers, Such as thrifty and progressive farmers, fruit 
and vegetable growers, stock raisers, as well as business 
men and men who are seeking investment in timber, 
minerals, manufactures, etc. 

We have several million acres of splendid farming, 
timber and mineral lands, which we can sell on easy terms 
arid at marvelously low prices. We shall send free, upon 
application, terms' and prices and full descriptions of 
lands offered for sale. 

We are offering bargains that cannot be approached 
by those offered in other States. We have unequaled 
advantages, in the way of a mild and healthful climate, 
productive lands, abundant rainfall and no "dry sea- 
son," the greatest variety of agricultural products to 
be found in any equ.il area in the United States, and 
good law-abiding people, who will heartily welcome all 
newcomers. 

We invite all persons seeking homes, timber or min- 
eral lands, farms, fruit lands, vineyards, or investments 
of any kind, to correspond with or call on this Bureau. 

A pamphlet on Georgia and its resources, etc., to- 
gether with other literature on the State, and price and 
descriptive lists of properties for sale, will be sent free 
on application to 

W. .1. NORTHEN, Manages 

Georgia Immigration * Investment Bureau. 



vV. T. NEWMAN. 



UXION 



MARBLE & GRANITE CO., 

MANUFACTURERS OF 
MONUMENTSAND TOMBSTONES, 

Wainscot, Tiling, Mantels and other Interior Decora- 
tions. Also Importers of fine Italian Statuary. 



Office and Works, 50 Loyd St., 



Atlanta, 6a. 



ROSES 



The newest and best varieties 
for outdoor planting. Flow- 
ering of all kinds. Ornamental 
xjfcx trees, vines, etc. Fruit trees 
\oSf7 and grape vines of best sorts. 
Send for Catalogue to 



: SHRUBS 



815 Equitable Building, 



W. D. BEATIE, 

Atlanta, Ga. 



FOOTE'S TRUNK FACTORY, 

Successor to Abe Foote & Bros., 

manufacturers of 

Fine Trunks, Valises, Traveling Bags, Etc. 

WHOLESALE AND RETAIL 

Salesroom and < (nice, 17 East Alabama Street. 

JEFF. J. FOOTE, I TRUNK AND VALISE REPAIRING 



MANAGER. 



A SPECIALTY, 



Every housekeeper visiting - 
Atlanta should not fail 
to call at =z 

pi EIN~ ^ns@##®©^ 

THOMPSON 
HARDWARE CO., 

Cor. Broad and Marietta Streets. 

They will show you more useful 
articles to make housekeeping easy 
than you can find anywhere, as 
they keep everything on earth in 
Hardware and Kitchen Ware 



15<ar)crwa Valley ^eer £< 



IMPORTERS AND .TOURERS OF 



O O O O 



ffETi/ 



Spice Grinders and Baking O dd D D ii 

Powder Manufacturers. V 0, " V' rfe ® p s_ylh). 



n 



lizaheiih Jlf. (3 06 swell, 



Chiropodist and manicure, 

AND ALSO 

PARISIAN HAIR DRESSING. 



73% Whitehall Street, 

Mania, Grz 



KING HARDWARE COMPANY, 

STOVES 

and KITCHEN WARE, 

60 PKACHTREE SX. 

n. B„ A VARY* 

Druggist @. 

^miriufaetuFeir 

@f thm 4uwmM<% anKl delight 

fpmn'ih^&hmf and b-^thv 



pe e Co 



JoatibD^©^. 



?p 



Firesenptl© 



)o o o o o o 



&l MOORE. 

CRYSTAL LENSES 

TRADE MARK. 

Quality First and Always. Hj 




The only complete Plant in the South for the Mannfac" 

tilling of Spectacles and Eye Glasses. 

40 Marietta Street. ATUANTA, GA. 

The Atlanta Guano Co., 

ATLANTA, GA. 

Amkricus Guano Co., 

AMERICUS, OA. 

Walton Guano Co., 

SOCIAL CIRCLE, GA. 

JOHN M. GREEN, 

PRESIDENT, 
ATLANTA, - - - GEORGIA. 



.Mrs. Gondc 



otx 



' 6 Bo L06ra:o6e 






$ 



jp 



ie.r, 



GBif clr exit's PBotos 
a. .SpsiGia/Pt/ 

FiT2est ¥or^ Gaara/nteieicl. 
2SV 2 WBife-Bexff St. 



GEO. F. GLASKIN & CO. 

STEAM AND HOT WATER 

HEATING. 

Power Plants Erected. 



We make a Specialty of Heating 

Mills and Factories by the 

Hot Blast or Fan System. . . . 



ATLANTA, 



;EORGIA. 



festers, 



^Booksellers and ^Stationers. 

Artists' , '{Engineers' and 
Architects' 

. . . ^applies ... 
- \K%:tehall fitreet, jffblanta. Gra. 



J. K. P. CARLTON. 



H. I>. SMITH. 



Carlton s Smith, 

. . PRODUCE . . 

AND 

GENERAL COMMISSION MERCHANTS. 

DEALERS IX 

GRAIN, HAY, FLOUR, Etc. 

SPECIAL ATTENTION GIVEN TO COUNTRY PRODUCE, 
FLORIDA FRUITS AND VEGETABLES. 

Reference : Atlanta National Bank. 

Prompt Sales and Quick Returns. 

5 N. Forsyth St., Atlanta, Ga. 




Southern *]f erfumery Go., 

CQanufagtu^ei^s op 

J~(lGH GRtfDE PERFUMES ^3 

JrkVORIXG gXTR^IGTS. 



LABORATORY : 

68 S. PRYOR STREET, 
• • • • ATLANTA, GEORGIA. 



Insist upon having our Perfumes. If your Druggist cannot supply 
you, we can and will. 



,F [ 



LSOM'S 



L. B. FOLSOM, Proprietor' 



READING ROOM RESTAURANT. 

Nos. 14, 16, !8 and 20 Marietta Street, 

ATLANTA, GA. 
Nearly Opposite Artesian Well. 



DRINK 



DELICIOUS ! 

REFRESHING 



cca~i 




Relieves Headache Immediately. 

At Soda Fountains, 5 cents per glass. 



r*j-lci)r) Jf^©l©=C)iocl^ feo. • • • 

32 Vi South Broad asd 

37% Whitehall Streets, . . . 

Atlanta, Ga. 



wholesale dealers in 



Photographic Supplies. 
. . . . Amateur Outfits a Specialty. 






o o ^ 



FELDER & DAVIS, 

ATTORNEYS AT LAW, 

Rooms 11-13 Grant Building, 

ATLANTA, GA. 

J. A. ANDERSON, 

29 Gate City Bank Building, 
ATLANTA, GA. 



PROFESSIONAL CARDS . . 



GLENN & ROUNTREE, 

ATTORNEYS AT LAW, 
(isiln City Hank Building, 

'Phone 1030. 
B. II. & C. I). HILL, 

ATTORNEYS AT LAW, 

602 and 604 Equitable Building". 
A. II. COX, 

ATTORNEY AT LAW, 
85V 2 Whitehall: St., ATLANTA, GA. 

BURTON SMITH, 

ATTORNEY AT LAW, 
L0y 2 S. Broad St., ATLANTA, GA. 

S. B. TOWNES, 
21 Gate City Bank Building, 

A ILANTA, L.A. 



W. II. & E. R. BLACK, 

240-242-244 Equitable Bldg., 

ATLANTA, GA. 

Telephone 1205. 

JOHN L. HOPKINS & SOri, 

ATTORNEYS AT LAW, 
28£ Peachtree St., ATLANTA, GA. 

KONTZ & CONYERS, 

ATTORNEYS AT LAW, 
('».! S. Broad St., ATLANTA, GA. 

OLLNN 
SLATON & PHILLIPS, 

ATTORNEYS AT LAW, 
Grant Building, ATLANTA, GA. 



.1. K. ItdlllNSDN. 



K. ItlUUNSON. 



ROBINSON & ROBINSON, 

LAWYERS, 

JU Whitehall Street, Room 7, 

ATLANTA, GA 



